the Buenos Aires Review » Guest Languages

Kondenswasser

Martín Felipe Castagnet — Sun, 30 Oct 2016 17:31:18 +0000

Anja Kampmann

Versuch über das Meer

Es soll um den Horizont gehen den

Farbauftrag der Ferne das helle Knistern

der Flächen von Licht und die Verbreitung

des Lichts wie es sich aufbäumt das Meer

in seiner weiten Brust der Faulschlamm

der Fischmehlfabriken das Meer der romantischen

Feuer an den Kiesstränden Reisende

die sich für immer verlieren

in einer Aussicht das Meer in den Häfen, den Docks

den Containerarealen das Meer züngelnd

unter Kränen die nachtwärts

das Heimweh hieven das Meer der Muränen

lauernd hinter einem Stein

das Meer der Tiefe verborgen ein Suchbild

für die Träume vom. Meer

die im Meer verschwunden sind grundlos

die Gräben darüber ein Mosaik aus Flocken

strömendes zähes Feld aus Dreck das Meer

das so gut verborgen ist japsend nach Luft in

seiner weiten Brust nach sich selbst

schnappend.

grenzland

wir haben tauwetter für die helleren stunden

wir haben keine kälte gekannt nur die leitern

führten hoch und höher in den baum wo die früchte

in gruppen hingen das laub roch die dünneren zweige

nur so viel blieb von der aussicht dir müdigkeit

in den knochen auf der waage wurden die stunden

vermessen die sonne lag in all der rötlichen schale

wir sammelten in dem grenzgebiet nur die hohlen

eimer voll in denen die erinnerung hauste ein

rötlicher boden neben den bäumen wie gebrüll

als die sonne sich schließlich neigte.

du hast von kaliningrad

den grießbrei behalten der blechtopf am morgen

im internat die hunde die wilden mit gebrochenen

schwänzen und schließlich ein schiff

das dir entgegen kam entfernt und weit später

im hafen die schatten der mützen brachen

den blick brachen hinter den kragen

die wochen auf zwischen krieg und marine

lagen meilen auf see und gänge so schmal

und kartoffeln so viele und nur

das geschrei von den möwen.

Leichthin

ist der Sommer

Ferne schreibt

die Buchstaben deines Gedächtnisses

mit leichter Hand

Während ein einzelnes Riesenrad

Gondel um Gondel

in die Luft steigen lässt

So ist auch die Nacht

nämlich das Aufsteigen

einer ungefähren Sprache

Kondenswasser

und so sind die Tage

nämlich ähnlicher dem Vergessen

dem Abwenden des Blicks wenn

der frühe Abend die Kleider durchdringt

die Übergänge ins Vorhin

dem du ähnlicher

wirst. Abtreiben auf diesem alten Dampfer in Richtung Atlantik, Cuba

So sind Tage

leichthin -

fallen die Gondeln

fallen wie jeder Schritt

Setzkästen mit getrockneten Faltern

eine Sammlung

die wie ein Schnalzen in der Dunkelheit verklingt.

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Go back to the English

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Bilder: Frank Berendt

错误

admin — Tue, 12 Jan 2016 02:54:03 +0000

郑愁予

我打江南走过
那等在季节里的容颜如莲花的开落
东风不来，三月的柳絮不飞
你的心如小小的寂寞的城
恰若青石的街道向晚
跫音不响，三月的窗扉紧掩
我达达的马蹄是美丽的错误
我不是归人，是个过客

O leito

heather — Tue, 25 Aug 2015 03:21:02 +0000

Carol Bensimon

Acontece que nasceram numa cidade bem pequena entre duas mais ou menos grandes, um tipo de coisa ruim para o conformar-se, porque assim tinham toda a estrada para olhar, e olhavam. E acontece que na beira da estrada havia uma venda em casa de mil novecentos e trinta e poucos, seus degraus uma arquibancada para as meninas. Ficavam, e toda a tarde. Uns carros iam passando, um carro parava. Titi deixava que as pernas finas se esticassem na passagem, as picadas de mosquito em casquinhas de sangue de tanto coçar. A camiseta ia até as coxas, se coxas já tivesse. O viajante pedia licença, entrava, Titi ria escondido. Lina, mais velha em três anos, era um tanto mais triste. Não mostrava perna nem nada, pois alguma coisa já começava a ter. Riscava o nome com uma pedra, só a pulseira com bolinhas amarelas quebrava o preto da roupa. O viajante outra vez ia embora com a coca-cola. Se vinham famílias, tanto melhor, a venda estalava como uma velha senhora. Dona Celestina fazia as somas a lápis na letra demorada de colégio. O viajante se impacientava porque tinha que viajar. E dentro da venda os velhos jogavam dominó sem falar um com o outro.

Titi disse assim nuns começos de março: tá quente, a gente podia nadar, e sorriu pra Lina. É porque seguindo a trilha aberta por insistência no meio do matagal, tinha esse rio que aparecia, correndo também como a estrada, indo, até que surgissem nas margens, já bem longe, as serrarias, a usina abandonada e a tristeza dos peixes à milanesa com limão em prato de plástico para quem não podia pagar as férias com paisagem melhor. Mas nada disso tinham visto as irmãs. Lina já não achava no rio tanta graça. Os pés iam grudando no fundo, os dedos roçando o áspero e descendo pela areia, e por onde e por quem tinha passado aquela água era coisa que não dava pra saber. Não respondeu. Titi fez uma bola de chiclete, colocou a língua no meio. Que rio que nada, continuou pensando a Lina. Era ainda pior porque os garotos agora tinham a mania de fumar escondidos perto da figueira e riam por qualquer bobagem, os pés enfiados pra dentro d’água, falando alto, rindo de quê.

Titi entrou correndo no rio, batendo n’água com as palmas abertas. Voavam gotas aos montes, num barulho que tapou o dos carros na estrada. Parece é que ela se divertia sempre, mesmo com a repetição sem fim, e nisso Lina sentia umas pontas de raiva, que abafava logo para não achar que era má. E daí fazia uns mimos e pronto, respirava aliviada. Mas quem sabe o que ia acontecer dali a dois ou três anos com a tal da facilidade da Titi em se agradar de qualquer coisa.

Lina foi entrando na água bem devagar, sentindo o gelado, ajeitando o biquíni, olhando a margem, o mato. O tronco da figueira não tinha nem garoto nem bicicleta encostada, e a sombra da figueira, ninguém espalhado por cima. Em volta era só pássaro e peixe, o cansaço de não acontecer nada. Cidade besta. Uma praça, uma igreja, nenhum semáforo, conversas repetidas. Quem consegue sair, vira herói e assunto. No domingo, as famílias vão para a rua e andam de uma ponta até a outra e bem devagarzinho, que é pra cidade não acabar rápido demais. Passeiam na igreja. Passeiam na praça. O herói vem de longe, a família sai para desfilar o herói. E os outros, nas esquinas, poucas esquinas, fazem concha com as mãos para contar o que ouviram dizer.

Lina foi até a metade do rio. Quando mergulhou, ouviu que a Titi começava a falar alguma coisa, mas então a água ficou por cima do resto. Abriu os olhos lá embaixo. As pernas da irmã batiam sincronizadas, como um brinquedo de corda posto numa bacia. Lina se aproveitou do silêncio o tempo que pôde. Até que era bom. Deu então para imaginar ou relembrar o João. O João era um dos meninos, ou o único. O resto eram os meninos que andavam com o João e só. Riam todos do mesmo jeito (das piadas do João). Sentavam todos do mesmo jeito (em volta do João). Jogavam todos o videogame do João. Pela janela se via em muitas noites o azulado da sala, se sentia o cheiro da pipoca, se escutavam os dedos batendo os botões, e os gritos dos zumbis destroçados, pá pá pá, mas o João é muito bom mesmo e o jogo acabou tão rápido que tem que mandar vir outro, porque em casa de João não tem data para ganhar presente, nem se precisa provar bom comportamento. Pois então foi esse o João que Lina quis imaginar empoleirado num galho da figueira, com um cigarro atrás da orelha, sorrindo e oferecendo. Quer, Lina? Nunca aconteceu.

Saiu debaixo d’água. Nisso a pequena se chegava com as pernas aos trancos e os olhos grandes cintilando de um medo contente, ansiosa para dar a notícia. Você tá ouvindo isso? Sim, ué, um barulhão, mas o que é? Fala, pô. Titi respirava pesado. E mesmo que a princípio não houvesse mais ninguém por perto, primeiro Titi fez uma concha em volta da boca, para daí então falar.

Correram a recolher as roupas e vestiram algumas peças ao contrário. Mas você viu ou acha quê? De que tamanho e quantas? Lina levou os chinelos na mão porque não teve paciência de calçar. Iam rápido, as blusas já com as manchas d’água, Titi na frente empurrando o mato com as pernas que pingavam, Lina com o jeans arrastando na grama. O João devia estar matando zumbis, enquanto, perto do rio, a cidade se agitava num segredo ainda não descoberto. O pé de Lina deslizou na lama e continuaram correndo. Chegaram perto e ficaram acocoradas atrás do mato. Eram três retroescavadeiras e estavam pondo tudo abaixo. Arrancavam as árvores do chão e essas iam cair umas sobre as outras. Engatavam uma ré e iam de novo. Havia então o barulho dos galhos se quebrando e o farfalhar exagerado das folhas, como se numa grande tempestade que põe as crianças encolhidas debaixo das cobertas. E das árvores partidas, o cheiro doce da seiva tomava todo o ar de março.

Um espaço vazio já estava aberto no meio do verde amontoado. Era de onde um homem dava ordens e indicava direções às retroescavadeiras, e sua barriga gorda e mole aparecia cada vez que levantava o braço. Seis dias sobre sete e era isso o que ele tinha que fazer, derrubar. Passou as costas da mão pela testa e olhou em volta. As meninas se abaixaram ainda mais, uma empurrava a ou-tra por um pedaço maior de moita. O homem limpou a garganta, o som de um animal selvagem que vai atacar.

Cuspiu na terra. A terra antes não parecia tão vermelha quanto estava agora. O homem gritava, apontava, cuspia. Uma retroescavadeira estava brigando com uma grande árvore que não podia correr. A máquina ficou mais baru-lhenta e foi com tudo. Deixou o tronco lascado, e ia então mais uma vez. Cheiro bom. De seiva. De terra mexida. Mais uma vez. Ouviram que se soltava, que perdia, como um rasgo, um som seco, o que faz fogo atiçado. A árvore daí de ponta-cabeça no amarelo da máquina, carregada sem jeito, como princesa levada pelos cabelos.

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Go back to the English

* *

Image: Lucía Vassallo

Love

Martín Felipe Castagnet — Wed, 03 Sep 2014 21:05:46 +0000

Zhang Ailing
translated by Qiaomei Tang

It is true.

There was a village. There was a girl from a well-to-do family. She was a beauty. Matchmakers came, but none succeeded. She was no more than fifteen or sixteen, when on a spring evening she stood at the back door, resting her arm on a peach tree. She remembers the moon-white dress she wore. The young man living opposite her house had seen her before, but had never greeted her. He approached, stood still before her, and said softly: “Oh, you are here, also?” She said nothing, and he said nothing more. They stood for a while, then each walked away.

Like that, it was over.

Time passed. The girl was abducted by a relative, and would be a concubine in a strange land. Again and again, she was resold. Having endured life’s winds and waves, in her old age she still remembers the scene from long ago. She speaks often of that young man, under that peach tree, at that back door, on that spring evening.

You meet the one you meet amongst thousands and tens of thousands of people, amidst thousands and tens of thousands of years, in the boundless wilderness of time, not a step sooner, not a step later. You chance upon each other, not saying much, only asking softly, “Oh, you are here, also?”

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READ THIS IN CHINESE

愛

Martín Felipe Castagnet — Wed, 03 Sep 2014 19:01:43 +0000

張愛玲

這是真的。

有個村莊的小康之家的女孩子，生得美，有許多人來做媒，但都沒有說成。那年她不過十五六歲吧，是春天的晚上，她立在後門口，手扶著桃樹。她記得她穿的是一件月白的衫子。對門住的年輕人同她見過面，可是從來沒有打過招呼的，他走了過來，離得不遠，站定了，輕輕的說了一聲：“噢，你也在這裡嗎？”她沒有說什麼，他也沒有再說什麼，站了一會，各自走開了。

就這樣就完了。

後來這女子被親眷拐子賣到他鄉外縣去作妾，又幾次三番地被轉賣，經過無數的驚險的風波，老了的時候她還記得從前那一回事，常常說起，在那春天的晚上，在後門口的桃樹下，那年輕人。

於千萬人之中遇見你所遇見的人，於千萬年之中，時間的無涯的荒野裡，沒有早一步，也沒有晚一步，剛巧趕上了，那也沒有別的話可說，惟有輕輕的問一聲：“噢，你也在這裡嗎？”

Marilyn Monroe, my mother

Pola Oloixarac — Mon, 01 Sep 2014 16:42:40 +0000

Neda Miranda Blažević-Kreitzman
translated by Ellen Elias-Bursac

Many people wrestle with discomfort and fear when they travel by air. Dino Lučić and Veljko Linić were not that sort. The two young businessmen from Split, Croatia were now reclining, relaxed, en route from Frankfurt, Germany to Los Angeles, wrestling with the urge to sleep that was pulling down their drooping eyelids, hampering their adventuresome spirit to gaze out the little window at the vivid blue sky through which their speedy vessel was winging its way.

Dino Lučić was tall, slender, dark-haired, while Veljko Linić was medium-height, muscular, and blue-eyed. Both worked at Jedrogradnja, a company that built and sold speedboats and yachts. Their best customers were Americans. The salesmen for Jedrogradnja had been working with B&B Brothers, Inc. of Los Angeles for nearly four years.

Lučić and Linić had been friends since their teens. When the Homeland War broke out in Croatia in 1991, their generation was just finishing high school. Dino, who had an aunt and uncle in Canada, moved to Ottawa and attended the university there. He graduated with a degree in international commerce and finance. His studies gave him a mastery of English and French. Soon after he earned his degree he found an office job at Sal-Mon, a large fish-processing concern. He worked hard and with spirit. Two years on, his work ethic, alacrity, and eye-catching good looks earned him advancement to the post of general manager’s assistant in the finance department at Sal-Mon. Working in a global marketplace meant traveling often to different parts of the world: China, Japan, the Middle East, North and South America. This new, high-paying job of Dino’s was physically and mentally extremely demanding. But he was resilient and ambitious. He often met attractive women on his travels and he would draw their attention like a rare, glittering jewel. But the demands of his job meant he was not yet ready for monogamy. Fleeting trysts with women he met at meetings, international trade fairs in the food industry, and in bars up and down the Americas, Asia, the Middle East and Europe suited Dino just fine emotionally and physically. He was sure his life was perfect until one night, when, soon after his thirty-second birthday, the elusive power of nostalgia evoked images of his parents, the city of Split where he was born, childhood friends and his high-school sweetheart Karmela—an alluring brunette on whom almost all the boys in school had had crushes.

Two months later, after lengthy bartering with nostalgia and his bosses at Sal-Mon, Dino quit and back he went to Split. Within three months he married Karmela, a medical technician employed at the City Pharmacy. She was divorced and had a five-year-old boy.

His old friend Veljko Linić came to their wedding. A marine engineer, father of two girls and husband to Marijana, an attorney, Veljko worked as a ship designer and builder at financially shaky Jedrogradnja. He was hard-working and quiet. The only subjects he talked about at length and with spirit were ship motors and the construction of all manner of boats. So his friends dubbed him Veljo Mut-or. But the derisive nickname did not prevent him from winning the acknowledgment of the Association of European Shipbuilders for an innovation—a part installed in the safety valves for the cooling system of a motor. Several Scandinavian and German shipbuilders offered him a good job, but Veljko flatly refused them all, saying, “I would hate it, some day, with us living abroad, for my kids to be talking to me in some language I can barely understand.”

The two old friends picked up smoothly from where they had left off fourteen years back. Mate Škoro, director of Jedrogradnja, offered Dino a job. Škoro was right in reckoning that Dino’s versatility with world markets, foreign languages and cultures, and Veljko’s engineering flair would help Jedrogradnja break onto the overseas market. This simple calculation harnessed the two old friends in a successful team on which both of them were the helmsmen and the crew members. Now, while the brisk winds and high seas on the Pacific vied to buffet the rocky and sandy beaches of western California, their rugged sails served able sailors and windsurfers as a natural fuel for escapades that defied bewildered gravity.

A light gust of wind jostled the plane in which Linić and Lučić were dozing. The shudder woke them. They shot each other groggy looks. After a second or two, Veljko smacked his dry lips; Dino rubbed his eyes. Nothing serious, just the wind pecking at the wings. Then they both turned to the window, jointly craning their necks. Into thirsty view floated postcard vistas of the Pacific. Its vast wrinkled skin was flecked with white, blue and red yachts speeding over the water like romping dolphins. Some were made by Jedrogradnja. Grinning, Veljko and Dino watched them slice the wave crests, and twinned thoughts danced through their heads. Both were sure their new motor launch model, the ST22, and the slogan Jedrogradnja had chosen for it, Hvatajte vjetar s nama! Catch the Wind with Us! would catch the fancy of Americans.

As the plane from Frankfurt came in to land at LAX after nine exhausting hours of flight, and as the sun’s glowing May orb was moving slowly toward the flat Pacific horizon speckled with gold glints swelling on the meshed ocean surface, there were still heeling sailboats and perpendicular yachts about.

Although Lučić and Linić had already been to the city of many-colored angels three times, they were suprised each time anew while out on the broad streets, the corners, the avenues by things that were fresh, challenging and even downright astonishing. Last year they had, for instance, stumbled upon a small square where a young man, his hair dyed orange, face covered in tattoos, was performing an art piece (or was it a circus act? Dino and Veljko weren’t sure) with a green iguana, three feet long, in his arms.

For his show with the iguana, the performer was demanding a dollar bill from each member of the audience. He would also accept coins. While a few bills and coins dropped into the upturned red hat a step away from him on the sidewalk, he cautiously inserted the long pink head of the iguana into his mouth and then slowly brought it out. Bedecked with long ossified spikes, the reptile’s head was like a flesh-and-blood crown that could very well pierce the roof of its master’s mouth. Finally, as the iguana’s body stilled to motionless with the monotonous ritual movements, the cold-blooded performer began pushing the lizard’s head farther and farther down his throat.

The onlookers reacted in a variety of ways. Some barked with nervous laughter, others dismissed it with a shrug, voiced disgust, cheered raucously “Yeah! Yeah!”

An overweight woman in a flowery dress began emitting little shrieks, and an African American man exclaimed loudly: “Whoa, bro, where does the man stop and the beast begin? Poor thing!”

Dino and Veljko shot each other glances. Their eyebrows arched as they turned, finally, and left the square.

They were expecting, this year, that the Los Angeles array of street shows would be replete with swallowers of exotic animals, flames, and sharp knives.

While purple twilight suffused the sky above the city of angels, already lit by thousands of lights, the two men from Split waited for a cab on the sidewalk out in front of the big three-part airport entrance. Black sports bags holding laptops hung from their shoulders. Next to their feet were small dark-blue suitcases. Lučić and Linić eyed the surroundings out of habit in case they might catch sight of some of the local color whose appearance and behavior might rock their boat, or see a pretty girl to evince a sigh. Their perusal was halted by the penetrating voice of a woman driver who pulled up with her blue and green taxi right in front of where the men from Split were standing.

“Gentlemen,” the driver addressed them slowly as she stepped out of the car.

“Good evening,” answered Dino in accent-free English, swiftly picking his suitcase up off the sidewalk.

Veljko followed suit, nodding at the platinum-blond cabbie. His mute greeting also allowed him to take the precise measure of the driver’s looks and age. She was attractive. Veljko couldn’t pin her age down exactly. Somewhere between thirty and forty, he thought.

The lady cabdriver smiled. She knew what sorts of questions were spinning around his head. She stoked Veljko’s fancy by lightly flicking a stray curl from her smooth brow, tucking it behind her right ear. But the wayward lock bounced back to where it had been.

Veljko smiled warily. The cab driver decided to end the little game, she spun around and went over to the trunk of the car, swaying her wide-set hips. Just before she stopped, she flicked the tendril-like curl back from her right eye with a flirtatious snap of the head. She was certain that Veljko still had his eye on her so she carefully adjusted the plunging neckline of her pink shirt. The shirt, speckled with yellow-brown leopard spots, clung close to her robust torso.

The woman’s dark purple pants clearly outlined her firm, round buttocks. Her blue high-heeled tiger-striped sandals showed she was a lover of wildlife, a regular at a weight-lifting establishment, and a reasonably good imitator of Marilyn Monroe. (Los Angeles was a mecca for female and male impersonators of the famous actress).

After Veljko and Dino placed their luggage in the trunk they were both stunned by grogginess and exhaustion. The warm California air and the nine-hour time difference suddenly hit them like a giant pendulum. They broke out in a sweat and could hardly wait to get to the hotel and a shower.

While they clambered into the back seat, the platinum-haired driver asked them in a leisurely tone, “So, where to?”

“Hollywood, Hotel Luna Luna,” said Dino, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with a tissue.

The taxi driver nodded, switched on the A/C, and off they went. As they exited the airport and pulled onto Sepulveda Boulevard, the woman glanced over at the seat next to her, where a brown cardboard box lay, filled with brochures.

It was almost nine o’clock at night. The glaring neon lights along the street, the massive windows on the tall buildings and the giant billboards with splashy ads gave the people of Los Angeles the illusion they lived on a bright night-time star.

After a few minutes on the road, weary Veljko fell fast asleep. His mouth dropped open, his left arm stretched along his body, his right slightly bent at the elbow. He looked like a slumbering boy on a canvas by Michelangelo Caravaggio.

The driver, who had been checking the rear view mirror from time to time, now trained her eyes on it. The reflection of her blue, softly smiling eyes sought the reflection of Dino’s dark gaze.

At first he didn’t notice her. He stared, expressionless, through the window, shifting positions in the seat—seeking a more comfortable angle for his long legs.

The driver, however, was patient. For the next few minutes, she’d look up at the mirror at regular intervals, knowing that the tall man in the seat behind her would finally feel the reflection of her eyes on him. And he did.

“In LA for work or fun?” asked the woman when the reflection of her probing gaze in the mirror met with the mirrored reflection of Dino’s sleepy eyes.

“Work,” answered Dino tersely. He was in no mood for talk.

Clearly up for a chat, the driver was not so easily dissuaded. “But a little fun in LA would do no harm, am I right?”

“Of course,” said Dino, knowing where such conversations usually led: a boring disquisition on the weather, tourism, and the other usual taxi topics.

“I assume that when you are out to have fun you make time for reading,” continued the cab driver softly.

Her assumption startled Dino. Reading for fun in Los Angeles? She must be kidding, he thought. And then, again, maybe she wasn’t. His quick mind flew to the thought that this might be some Hollywood code word or ploy, a surprise query with which traffickers in various illegal activities, maybe drugs and prostitution, lured clients into their vile commerce. Reading. Reading what? Dino went on weighing his mental questions. Books? What books? Minds? Dreams? Palms?

As these thoughts shot through his mind, a small ironic grimace playing on his lips. He was a businessman and he knew nearly all the tricks of the trade for the sale of almost anything to potential customers. But he had never until now been asked by a cab driver, man or woman, whether he had fun reading in the city he was visiting. Serious reading.

“I know, my question is unusual in professional or social settings such as this. But there you have it. I like reading so it strikes me as logical to chat with passengers about books,” she said, reading Dino’s thoughts.

He shifted again in the seat and nodded. Still wary, he waited for her to make it clearer what she was after.

She did so readily, saying, in a chatty tone: “Many of my customers come from all over the world and I often hear from them the names of writers who have written engaging books in their language. If I may, who is your favorite writer?”

Dino rolled his eyes like a school kid and sighed. He still wasn’t clear on where to go with this. Should he launch into a quasi-academic discussion with the cab driver who sounded as if she had studied English literature or something, or should he tell her he was worn out from all the travel and the only thing he could think of was sleep? He almost told her he could hardly wait to throw himself onto a bed, and then she turned to him and grinned. In the muted light of the taxi her face looked youthful and fresh.

Dino gulped. He thought perhaps this was not the best moment to mention bed and flinging himself onto clean sheets. But what could he say? That he had no favorite writer. That he mainly read books by economists and bankers. Maybe he should yawn and make the excuse of being groggy. But then the driver might ask him where he and his friend had come from and how long they’d be staying in town. No, he did not want to venture into a broader conversation with the driver.

As if she were easily reading Dino’s indecisive thoughts, the woman turned her soft profile to him again and said in a soothing voice, “You probably work hard and don’t have much time for reading. I get it.”

“Indeed,” mumbled Dino and deeply inhaled the air-conditioned air. His throat began to ache. Little stabs of pain stirred panic in his gurgling gut. The last thing he needed was a sore throat. He shouldn’t have drunk so much ice water on that airless plane, he thought while shallow flushes of spittle forced him to swallow again and test the pain level in his throat.

The driver took Dino’s silence as encouragement to continue the conversation about reading and her favorite writers. “Surely you have heard of William Saroyan. The American writer. What a playwright. Better than Tennessee Williams, at least for me. I guess we all have our favorites. Am I right?”

And without waiting even a second for Dino to respond, she went right on in a lilting voice, “That reminds me of this anecdote about Saroyan. When talking with some journalist guy he said that us readers ought to finish a good book feeling worn out, exhausted. Isn’t that just too cute?”

Finally choking back the spit, Dino wanted to say that he was, himself, pretty worn out, just as if he had read the most recent book by the Saroyan guy, but that he wasn’t up to talking about it because he was so bushed. Then he was unexpectedly prodded by vanity and wanted to tell the pretty cab driver that over the last fifteen years he had read an armful of novels and plays, American and modern classics, and that he’d be able to hold forth on them till dawn, but sadly, was unable to because his throat was so sore. At the same time an alarm went off in his head warning him to watch it. What if the driver used his boasting for a new assault, into which she would, undoubtedly, weave mention of heroic Russian classics about which he knew next to nothing. He had seen the movie version of War and Peace on television. Too many characters and romantic twists. Too little real action. He had fallen asleep on the sofa before this bumbling guy, Bezukhov, if he’d remembered the name right, married a woman he wasn’t even in love with. What a soap opera, thought Dino, yawning.

The driver shot Dino a quick glance again in the mirror. “Have you read anything by Saroyan?” she asked softly.

This time Dino could not retreat to the defense of silence. Though he had never heard of this William Saroyan, he mumbled, “Yes, yes, Saroyan knows what he’s talking about.”

The patient blonde turned toward Dino and glanced meaningfully into his eyes.

He was immediately anxious that his throw-away lie might embroil him in a suggestive yet meaningless conversation about some complicated book written by this Saroyan guy and the amount of exhaustion which, he, Dino, had felt when finishing it. (He had been so tired he had barely been able to muster the strength to shut its sad cover.) But now, again, he did not allow himself to be drawn into a pointless banter about books. He did not want to lie and say he had read them. He followed his decision by lightly clearing his throat. He hoped his strategic coughs would let the driver know he had a cold and could no longer talk with her.

But the tireless woman would not let Dino off the hook. And besides, it was not every day she had such a handsome customer. So she pounced on him with new details about Saroyan and herself. “See, Saroyan, in a way, is my literary and human ideal. Like me he was born in California. His parents came to America from Armenia. His father died when he was three. The family fell apart. He, his brother and his sister ended up in an orphanage. Later they were re-united with their mother. Life was tough. Saroyan, who had nothing going for him but a sharp eye for observation, began writing about the world and himself. And there you have it! America and the world got a new genius! Isn’t that something?”

Dino nodded and sighed hopelessly.

The driver added nonchalantly, “I, too, have tried my hand at writing.”

Dino scratched his head. What he had feared most was happening. The cab driver was an unappreciated author, longing to talk about herself and her writing. A phantom author. This was her plan. To bombard him with the stories she would never write. Gee, everyone wants to be an author nowadays. What is the appeal? The observation that the world is screwed no matter what angle you use to look at it? he wondered, painfully swallowing the spit that had pooled, despite his efforts, in his mouth. He wrapped the fingers of his left hand around his chilled neck and coughed again, intending to let the hopeful driver-author know, with this gesture and the clearing of his throat, that she should stop bugging him with her irritating stories about writing and this Leroyan, or whatever his name was.

The taxi driver seemed to be waiting for Dino to bring his agitated thoughts to a close. When he stopped the coughing, she tipped her head sideways and smiled coyly at him in the mirror. “Under the weather?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” he lied hastily. He did not want the dogged driver-author to start recommending local saunas where he might sweat out all his hidden aches and pains and enjoy a massage with an agile masseuse to soothe him to sleep. (And, who knows, maybe wake him tenderly afterwards.)

These thoughts, which came from nowhere, sent Dino eyeing the cab driver’s muscled shoulders and bare arms with a quick, laser-sharp glance. He swallowed his spit again. God no! He mustn’t get lured into some dry erotic fantasy now. That was the last thing he needed, he silently chided himself, drumming the fingers of his right hand on his thigh.

While he strictly forbade himself from thinking about such things, the cab driver was slowly unbuttoning three buttons on her leopard-skin stretch top, and with a well-attuned ring of optimism, said, “Back to Saroyan. Don’t you find his life story inspiring?”

Dino flinched. That Saroyan again. And now inspiration to boot. If there was anything that could kill Dino’s mood and shrink his mental and physical potency it was the word inspiration. He had listened to his fill of it during his studies and at his first job. Many of his professors and colleagues at work had claimed that everything could serve as a source of inspiration. Poverty, a lost sports match, a break-up with a girlfriend or boyfriend who was not amused by stories about coconuts and swimsuits. But Dino did not buy the theory of Utopian optimism whose banner, as far as he could tell, was Inspiration.

The driver read Dino’s failure to respond to her question as his acquiescence. She shot him a sexy smile in the mirror.

Trapped in a vortex of clashing thoughts, Dino had no choice but to nod lightly and blurt, “Sure, Saroyan’s story is inspirational all right.”

The driver was pleased with his schoolboy response. “You see, like I said, Saroyan’s hard knocks moved me to write my life story. My autobiography, actually. It’s called Marilyn Monroe, My Mother.”

Dino flinched again. Though he had expected her to start reciting Hollywood-style bombastic book titles that would probably never see the light of day, the one she came up with did surprise him. She had written an autobiography with a title featuring Marilyn Monroe herself, no less. The driver’s supposed mother. Dino choked back laughter. He did not want to mix his irony with the cab driver’s fantasy life. He knew a few women and men who had made up stories about exciting adventures they had never taken part in. And all that just to impress themselves and those whose lives were even flatter and less exciting than theirs.

The silence—supposed to show the taxi driver the length and depth of Dino’s surprise in response to her using the name “Marilyn Monroe” and the noun “mother”—stretched beyond the customary time limit of five tense seconds. Dino, however, was the exception to the rule. He loved analyzing, weighing, criticizing and giving himself more time in any conversation, voluntary or otherwise. That is why he left the cab driver waiting impatiently for his response.

To underline his sudden control over the childish situation, Dino scratched his knobby elbow and glanced again over at the driver’s soft profile. Judging by her looks, the way she spoke and thought, she seemed to be a step ahead of the usual liar-author-amateur because she had written that Marilyn Monroe was her mother. Not a bad idea actually, he mused. But based on what he knew about Marilyn Monroe, he figured the blazing actress was a major lure for many who were building a hollow glory and, of course, turning an easy buck. So, the mystery was solved. This was what the driver was after, her own five-minute piece of the fame pie and the money that came with it.

Gloating over his insight, Dino grinned masterfully.

A little taken aback by his wordless grin (after all she had just told him her mother was Marilyn Monroe), the driver smiled once more into the rear-view mirror, catching Dino’s knowing gaze.

Sighing, he looked tactically over at Veljko who was still fast asleep, exhaling noisily through an open mouth. Then he looked back at the mirror, at the profile of the suddenly disgruntled driver. While he watched the right side of her forehead out of the corner of his eye, over which her blond, wayward lock of hair was at liberty, the angle of her pert nose and the corner of her pressed lips, he could not deny a slight similarity to Marilyn Monroe. But cosmetic surgery today could turn anyone into anyone else, he quickly added, coughing. His throat hurt more than ever.

“You know who Marilyn Monroe was? No?” she finally asked in a dry, instructor’s voice.

Dino started to say something biting, such as: No, I have no clue who M. M. was, but I do know that my old man hid pictures of her under the empty beer bottles in the garage. But the driver’s amicable gaze reminded him to be polite. And besides he didn’t want her to launch into an explanation of who Marilyn Monroe had been and what sort of connection that Zeeroyan fellow had with the two of them. So instead he murmured, “Yes, yes, I know who Marilyn Monroe was.”

The cab driver tipped her head slightly to the right. She seemed to be unsure as to why Dino wasn’t showing more interest in her life story with Marilyn Monroe in the lead role. Everyone wanted to know about her. In any combination with other people, the very name Marilyn raised eyebrows. She sighed lightly, turned to look at Dino, and asked him with a studied nonchalance, “Did you know Marilyn Monroe was one of the rare Hollywood actresses who never had a single surgical correction done? Not even her nose. Or her eyelids. Or her lips. Or her ears. Or her breasts. She was naturally perfect.”

“Yesirree, naturally perfect,” answered Dino quickly and readily, shifting his long legs from left to right. The persistence with which the driver was trying to draw him into a conversation reminded him of the people who were forever after their five minutes of limelight. Once he saw a TV show about women and men who hired and paid dearly for a so-called ghost writer who under their name wrote some scandalous drivel that millions of people read only because their own lives were even hollower than the lives of the drivel-scribblers. On the show he had seen a middle-aged man who had claimed unequivocally that he had the documents to prove he was the great-great-great-great grandson of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene and that he possessed all of Christ’s divine gifts. To prove this he explained how as a twenty-three year old he had fallen from the tenth floor of the building where he’d lived and survived, but went into a coma from which he awoke fifteen years later. The first thing that occurred to him was to stretch a line between two skyscrapers in New York and walk across it with no balancing pole. He did exactly that. Then he wrote a book about how he had known from birth that he was the great-great-great-great grandson of Jesus Christ and his follower, Mary Magdalene. The book sold well for a few months thanks to the outrage of members of certain religious groups who raised enough dust about what were, according to them, blasphemous assertions, and that lent him unwarranted publicity.

But who is to decide what is reasonable and what is unwarranted? Dino was leery of taking his critical thinking this far.

While he watched the right side of the slender but sturdy neck of the agile driver from the back seat, a small ironic grin spread across his face again. Now he was certain she was one of the many authors who were after a quick splash. Something in the way the driver held her head slightly tilted and glanced up at the mirror now and then reminded Dino of TV fame hunters. Many of them stared just as suggestively at the anchors of the shows they took part in, tilting their heads slightly like a hungry bird. And all those birds demonstrated convincingly that they were blood relations of famous dead people, mainly actors, princesses, kings, queens, actresses, presidents killed in assassinations, even Russian tsars.

Judging by the title of the book that she’d mentioned, Dino ranked her among those after genealogical fame. She wanted to be recognized as Marilyn Monroe’s daughter, not just some nameless cab driver. What was the difference between the two? Dino thought briefly about it while running his tongue down the inflamed roof of his mouth. The difference was in the money earned and a handful of pictures published in cheap gossip rags, he had to conclude while probing the painful spot at the very back of his throat with the tip of his tongue.

The earnest cabbie, however, would not let Dino throw her off course. Raising her husky voice a notch, with a studied melancholy, she tossed to him over her shoulder, “My favorite film that Marilyn stars in is Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.”

Dino flinched, lowered his tongue, and replied, “Yes, that is true.”

His ambiguous words hung in the humming air for a few sear seconds.

The driver released a throaty huh and coquettishly turned her profile toward Dino again. “So how come you’re not interested me?”

Dino swallowed a wad of spittle and deflected the woman’s snare with a diplomatic response: “But I am interested. I cannot believe that I am in a cab with Marilyn Monroe’s daughter.”

What he had wanted to say was that he couldn’t believe he was being driven in a cab by M. M.’s daughter, but, again, he did not want to sound churlish or coarse.

The cab driver of course, was perceptive enough to see through Dino’s ironic tone and his choice of words. She was used to peculiarities in the behavior and speech of her customers. And besides she didn’t get her degree in American literature and psychology at Golden Gate University in San Francisco for nothing!

The silence in the cab lasted another few questioning seconds.

The patient driver finally straightened up her tilted head and pursed her red lips flirtatiously. “You’re teasing me, I know, but really, I am Marilyn Monroe’s daughter. She is my biological mother.”

Dino nodded. He figured the adjective biological played the lead role in what the driver had said. This resonant adjective was needed to underline the scientific legitimacy of her story and stir in him a natural curiosity, even sympathy. After all she had lost her mother. Marilyn Monroe, no less. This shocking fact paved the way for all sorts of questions. The first might be: who had raised the little girl who now, forty years after the actress’s death, was chauffeuring him in her cab? No, thank you very much, Dino was not interested in hearing this fabulous story.

The driver checked the mirror again. Her gaze expressed both self-confidence and vulnerability.

Dino’s gaze involuntarily met hers in the mirror. Something in the woman’s eyes drove him to cough again and say, “Forgive me for saying this, but somewhere I read that Marilyn Monroe had no children.”

The cab driver sighed deeply, briefly holding her breath. Her face was tense as if she were poised to dive into an invisible body of water. Then she released her breath, relaxed her face, and answered, “Yes, I know. That was a lie spread by the very people who murdered her.”

This tough charge, heavy with weighty words, led Dino to blow his nose and draw in his shoulders as if he were suddenly chilled. Skittish nerves thrummed through his restless fingers. He did not know what to say. He finally coughed and mumbled that he was not aware of the fact of these lies. He wanted to throw into his sentence the adjective sad (fact), but he didn’t. He knew that this would sound artificial and trite. (Like, after all, everything that had gone on until then.)

The driver went on talking about Marilyn Monroe in a calm but suggestive tone. “Yes, sad to say, my mother was murdered. Her killers for years tried to silence the voices of those who knew how she died. They claimed it was all a conspiracy theory fed by gossip columns. But the truth will win out in the end, am I right?”

Dino nodded once more and noisily cleared his throat. Sounding like a bumbling police inspector, he asked, “And do you know who killed Marilyn Monroe? I mean, your mother?”

“You bet,” answered the driver and turned back to him. She looked steadily at Dino over her shoulder. After a few seconds her mysterious gaze melted on his pale face.

Scratching his chin like a bad actor, Dino wanted to ask the driver how it was that she, the daughter of someone like Marilyn Monroe, was working as an ordinary cab driver. But his social antennae, always on the alert at the back of his mind ever since he passed his exam at the University in the course “Awareness of the Inidividual and Critical Thinking,” were tying his tongue and whispering in his ear that it wasn’t polite to ask someone a question which might in any way belittle or insult them. So after that warning to himself he shifted gears and asked, politely, “Did you write about M.M.’s murder in your autobiography?”

“You bet,” said the woman, and reaching toward the box on the seat next to hers, she took a brochure off the top and handed it to Dino over her right shoulder.

“Here, this gives pictures of my mother and me and an excerpt from my autobiography. The picture of my birth certificate is on the last page. Everything is crystal clear and one hundred percent true.”

Dino leaned reluctantly forward to take the brochure. As he was taking it from the driver, his gaze dropped to her bare shoulder. Instinctively he leaned a little more forward, letting his gaze slide into the deep cleft of the driver’s bosom.

He noisily inhaled the air around her.

The dense light of night soaked into the woman’s smooth skin like gold powder. A subtle waft of floral perfume, draping her neck like an invisible necklace, undid Dino’s sleepiness in a flash. He inhaled once more and then breathed out. A heat wave washed over him.

“I am Norma Jeane Leone Monroe,” said the cab driver sweetly, interrupting Dino’s irregular breathing behind her scented neck.

He flinched, brushing the sweat from behind his upper lip with a finger. Then, brochure in hand, he sank slowly back down into the seat. “My pleasure, Miss Leone Monroe. Thank you, thank you. I will certainly read your autobiography. Sounds fantastic.”

Norma Jeane smiled coyly. “Excellent. You are so kind. And by the way, you can read the whole book on Facebook.”

“You’re kidding! Really?” said Dino hastily, settling awkwardly into the seat and covering his swollen crotch with the brochure. He cast a suspicious sideways glance at the still slumbering Veljko.

Norma Jeane Leone Monroe and Dino Lučić spent the next fifteen minutes in silence. The whole time he was struggling with his undesired arousal and the muted but lingering scent of Norma’s floral perfume.

She wasn’t struggling with anything.

They finally reached the most famous part of Los Angeles, Hollywood. Hotel Luna Luna was at the western end of Melrose Avenue, surrounded by tall palm trees and an array of lit billboards. On some of them smiled the faces of Brad Pitt, Kate Winslet, Denzel Washington, Halle Berry, Clive Owen, and other grinning film stars. Their movies were showing soon in America’s movie theaters.

“Here we are,” said the driver melodically, stopping the green and blue taxi in front of a semi-circular white and pink two-story building that looked more like a residence than a hotel.

Forty years before it had been an apartment building with ten one-bedroom apartments. There had been an animal shelter on the first floor. The owner sold the building to a savvy hotel manager who was counting on guests who were not rich, but who could afford a decent place to stay for two, three nights in much-lauded Hollywood. Above the entrance door a “Luna Luna” neon sign went rhythmically on and off. The rooms looked to the west, the street side, while the kitchens with their little living rooms and bathrooms faced south, overlooking a pool surrounded by low shrubs.

Dino and Veljko had first stayed at the Luna Luna the year before. The hotel had been recommended to them by Mike O’Hara, director of the import department at B&B Brothers, Inc.

The neon hotel sign that was turning off and on lit them in regular intervals as if it were an automatic camera with a flash attachment while Norma Jeane waited patiently for gangly Dino to wake up sleeping Veljko,.

Veljko finally woke up. Confused, he looked to the left and right.

“Where are we?”

“We’re here,” said Dino, and with his large hands he curled up the brochure the cab driver had given him fifteen minutes earlier.

While Veljko was pulling himself together, Dino pushed the roll of paper into his pants’ pocket and turned to look at Norma Jean Leone Monroe.

“Thirty-one dollars,” she said with a smile.

Dino tucked his fingers into the little pocket on his blue shirt. There was the money he had prepared, while still on the plane, to pay for the taxi. He took two twenties out and handed them breezily to the driver: “Thirty-six.”

Norma Jeane nodded. “Thanks,” she said and accepted the money. Then she reached behind her seat and fished out a small metal box. She opened it carefully and took out two dollars. She handed them to Dino with a warm smile.

He took the two bills from her with a sigh. Then he shot a questioning glance at her, tilting his head like a wary bird. Norma Jeane had been supposed to return him four dollars, not two.

Reading his thoughts, her smile broadened. “Two dollars for the brochure.”

Dino scowled, suddenly dizzy. He blinked a few times and looked left and right as if to quell the anger and negative energy surging through his tired thoughts and body. Yes, the driver had taken him, cleverly, for a ride, he thought. And now she had taken his two dollars for that stinking brochure that he wouldn’t have accepted under any other circumstances nor would he pass it on to anyone else. It wasn’t the two dollars, it was the question of having power over one’s own decisions and actions. He wanted to say this out loud to her.

But sleepy Veljko, unaware of the sudden tension between Dino and the driver, asked hoarsely, “So, we’re getting out here then?”

Dino swallowed both his spit and his urge to quarrel with the still-smiling driver. Instead he arched his eyebrows and shot her a sour smile, letting her know he had seen through her game from the start so she hadn’t outwitted him by selling him her tall tale of a biography. He shoved the two dollars theatrically into the pocket of his shirt.

“Come on,” pleaded groggy Veljko.

Dino nodded, wiping the smile off his face.

Veljko arched his eyebrows and took a deep breath of the air-conditioned air.

The driver, however, had not stopped smiling. What’s more, she was assailing Dino once again with her insistent cheeriness.

“Have a great time in Los Angeles, sir.”

His voice laden with irony, Dino snarled through clenched teeth, “Miss Leone Monroe, or whatever your name is, you are a cunning business woman.”

“I do my best,” replied the driver coquettishly, taking in with her self-confident gaze Dino’s effort to keep control of himself. Then she got out of the car and went back to the trunk.

Dino took several deep breaths, wanting to rid his mind and body of the anger. But vestiges of Norma’s floral fragrance tickled his hoarse throat. He coughed.

He and Veljko got out of the cab and went over to the trunk where Norma Jeane was standing, still smiling. While they took out their luggage she said to them, politely, “Gentlemen, if you ever want to see the town or go for a drive somewhere, let me know. My email and phone number are on the brochure.”

Surprised by her professional audacity, Dino answered with audible irony, “Thank you so much, you are very kind, but first I must read your excellent biography. And then we’ll see where we’ll go and how.”

Veljko looked over at him, surprised, and asked, sleepily, “Did I miss something while I was sleeping?”

Dino shook his head.

Norma Jeane Leone Monroe smiled again, tossing her hair back. Then she turned, and, swaying her hips, she went back to the driver’s door. She took her place at the wheel and waved blithely to the men.

Dino and Veljko stared after her, clutching their suitcases and computer bags like starving school kids.

The nighttime lights of Los Angeles soon absorbed Norma Jeane Leone Monroe and her taxi into their thirsty skin.

Dino’s and Veljko’s hotel suite was on the second floor. As soon as they stepped into the stuffy living room, Dino took in a deep and grateful breath of the stale air. His dizziness subsided at once. The anger and thoughts of Norma Jeane evaporated as soon as he and Veljko dropped their suitcases to the floor by the checkered sofa that set the sitting area apart from the kitchenette. Then they dropped onto the hard three-seater, taking their cell phones out of their black bags. They quickly tapped out messages to their wives that they had arrived safely and that they’d be in touch tomorrow.

And then, as in a smoothly rehearsed play, they got up from the sofa, grabbed their things and went into the largish bedroom. There they were greeted by a spacious king-sized bed. On both sides were brown, varnished nightstands. On each stood a portly lamp next to which were an electric clock and a white telephone. Across from the bed was a shelf unit with rows of drawers and a TV hung in a square space at the heart of the unit. To its right was a round table with three upholstered chairs, while to the left there was a desk with leaflets and guides for touring Hollywood and Los Angeles.

In silence Dino and Veljko slipped the laptops from their cases and placed them on the desk. Before the next movement of their simultaneous unpacking routine, Dino quickly removed from the pocket of his pants the rolled-up brochure that Norma Jeane Leone Monroe had sold him and set it down next to his laptop. Then they unpacked their dark-blue suits and hung them on wooden hangers in the closet. Next they took out toiletries, clean boxers and white T-shirts for sleeping. The two friends and business partners did all this in tandem, wordlessly, as if in a silent movie. It was as if they were rehearsing for an event that required speed and a special sequence for the actions.

“Is that meeting with O’Hara tomorrow morning at nine or at ten?” Veljko finally broke the silence.

“Nine,” replied Dino, without raising his eyes from the white T-Shirt in his hand.

“Will we get something there to eat or will we have a bite here before nine?”

“We’ll see,” answered Dino, still focused on his T-shirt.

“OK,” said Veljko, his stab at English.

Shared travels often force people to do the same or similar things in tandem or do what they need to do in a strict time frame. For some this can be real hell. For others, like Veljko and Dino, it had become routine. But not all things can be reduced to simple routine.

Veljko was the first to go into the bathroom and shower for five minutes. He came back into the room with a little more bounce in his step, pulling the narrow white T-shirt down over the waistband of the blue cotton boxers. His powerful body still showed the muscles of a former rower. He lay down on the left side of the bed, near the window, and yawned.

“I am dog-tired.”

“Me, too,” said Dino and went into the bathroom. The forty-minute drive through congested Los Angeles and the sly cab driver who had managed to sell him her cheap life story for two bucks had worn him out more than the trans-Atlantic flight.

When Dino came back into the room, refreshed, Veljko was already fast asleep. He was huffing as noisily as a steamship.

Dino lay on the right side of the bed and switched the lamp off on the night table. He stared for a minute at the ceiling, shut and opened his eyes. But sleep adeptly eluded him. Then Veljko’s rhythmic huffs began to grate on Dino’s nerves. His rising edginess reminded him that he had forgotten to take his melatonin pill before they flew out of Frankfurt. Melatonin would have changed the biorhythm of his body and his mind. The nine-hour time difference would have melted away in minutes. How could he have forgotten? But better not think about that now. Any agitation would only make it harder for him to sleep. Should he turn on the TV? News was usually soporific. Though American newscasts were different than the evening news back home. There was always something happening, he fretted restlessly.

Finally, after some twenty minutes of debating with himself, Dino decided he should relax completely and think about nothing. But, out of spite, mental images from the trip began flashing through his mind. Among them the profile, neck and shoulders of Norma Jeane Leone Monroe began rhythmically to appear. Then her face with its make-up, her seductive smile, her plunging neckline and her perfume completely enthralled Dino’s mental and sensual spheres. Before he sank again into these compelling reveries, he opened his eyes and sat up. He swallowed spit. His throat was really sore. Irritated, he switched on the lamp. Damn her, Norma Jeane Leone Monroe. That charlatan was the last person on earth he wanted to be thinking about now. But he couldn’t stop.

Dino checked the electric clock by the lamp. It was 11:09. In Split it was already the morning of the next day, 8:09. He would usually be in the kitchen at that point drinking the last sip of the coffee his Karmela had brewed for him.

Karmela? He should be thinking about her now. Her serenity would surely help him get to sleep. But coffee he mustn’t think about. Its fragrance would wake him even from a coma.

Sighing he looked over at slumbering Veljko on the other side of the bed.

Veljko read Dino’s agitated thoughts telepathically and nearly inaudibly mumbled, “A double, please, for me.”

Dino looked over at him, surprised.

Veljko only smacked his lips.

Dino felt like talking. “Hey, Veljo, were you stung by a tse-tse fly?”

“A whole swarm,” mumbled Veljko and turned over onto his left side.

Dino took a breath and surveyed the room. His gaze stopped at the desk on which among other things, was the rolled-up brochure from Norma Jeane Leone Monroe. Struggling for a few seconds between the impulse to get up and take it and his reason that advised him to lie back down and try to go to sleep, he became even more restless. Impulse won. He got up and in two long strides was at the desk. He snatched the rolled-up brochure and went back to bed. Impatiently he smoothed it out, watching how the title began to appear under his fingers in blue lettering: MARILYN MONROE, MY MOTHER. Under the title in finer print were the words: The Autobiography of Norma Jeane Leone Monroe.

There were two photographs of Monroe, platinum blonde, one next to another on the front, dressed in swimsuits. On one, she was in a white two-piece, on the other, in a red one-piece. In both she was smiling flirtatiously at the viewer. But seconds after he had glanced at both pictures, Dino noticed that the Marilyn on the right was shorter and plumper, while the one on the left was taller and more slender.

He sighed deeply and scratched his bare knee. So one of these Marilyns was real and the other, who knows? Fake or real, too? he mused while his greedy gaze flicked back and forth between the left and right Marilyns and finally rested on the juicy pursed lips of the one on the right.

As Dino’s finger slowly rose into the air with the intention of coming down on the firm, half-parted paper lips, his penetrating analytical bent and unconscious fears won out over his normal sex drives.

Again he painfully gulped back spit and again he looked at the picture of Marilyn on the left side of the first page of the brochure. Her face was identical to the face on the right. But then, again, the body of the one on the left was more slender and lithe. He decided analytically, with a certainty, that this was a photograph of the real Marilyn, too, whose figure some clever photographer had touched up a little so that the self-proclaimed actress’s daughter Norma Jeane Leone Monroe could claim this was she.

All of Dino’s musings about Marilyn Monroe’s appearance, the identity of the cab driver, and, finally, his own suppressed desires, irritated him more and more.

On the other side of the bed Veljko snored loudly and smacked his lips now and then.

In order to extricate himself from the chaotic trap of wakefulness into which he had stumbled, Dino once more spread out the brochure and then flipped the page. On the right was a black-and-white photograph of Norma Jeane Leone Monroe’s birth certificate, while on the left was a text bearing the title “My Golden Loves.” He scratched his chin and began to read.

My Golden Loves

Goldie, a golden retriever, was my first love. Marilyn Monroe, the golden goddess and my biological mother, was, and still is, my second love. Golden-mouthed Estella Dalixia Martin Gomez Velasquez, my first girlfriend, was my third love. My other loves were silver, bronze and iron. Some of the iron ones left scars on certain parts of my anatomy. (More about that later.)

Two important squares on the chessboard of my life are held by my adopted parents, Marietta and PIetro. They were my good angels. Especially my mother, a stylish housewife with a modest idea of what to do with her leisure time. In the afternoons, after lunch, she liked to smoke cigarette after cigarette, chat on the phone with her sister Paola, polish her gold bracelets, brooches and chains with a rag soaked in vinegar, and scheme about how I would become Somebody one day. Mama was never too clear on who that Somebody would be. (Hand on heart, my talents were modest. But I was pretty. At least so they told me.)

My Papa, Pietro, and his brothers, Gino and Domenico Leone, were the proprietors of Catania, a small restaurant in southern Los Angeles. All three of them spent their days and nights there. At night they usually played cards with the fat cats from town hall, drank whiskey, made eyes (and more) at the waitresses, and waited patiently for the day when, by some miracle, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin would walk in the door and join them at cards.

Mama often complained bitterly that Papa was married to the Catania and not to her.

The family on Mama’s and Papa’s sides were all from Sicily. É vero. Our family parties were like a send-off at a train station. Everyone hugging and kissing each other on the cheeks as if they were about to leap up onto a train that would be taking them into the unknown. Even the expressions on the faces of these relatives of mine showed just how attached they were to each other. But this bond was clearly defined by all sorts of demands, advice, and conditions. And slaps on the cheek, accompanied by a short, imperative “Eh”.

But Goldie, my golden retriever. She was the one who taught me about unconditional love. The following story demonstrates the efficacy of her unswerving dedication. A week after we brought Goldie home, her devoted glances and protective behavior spurred my mother Marietta to tell me a secret which, as I later learned, was shared only by Papa and Aunt Paola: that I, like Goldie, had been adopted. This news thrilled me. I wanted to be like my beloved retriever in every way.

It was destiny that sent her to me. This is how it happened.

Several days after my sixth birthday (I was born on August 3, 1962), I told Mama that I wanted a dog for my birthday. Papa didn’t like dogs. Mama, however, made a solemn promise that she’d get me one, but only if I promised to look after it.

Nothing easier than to look after someone you love.

That Saturday the three of us went to an animal shelter. It was on the first floor of a pink two-story building on Melrose Avenue in western Hollywood. When we stepped into the large room piled high with metal animal crates, we were surrounded by the pungent odors of animals and the sweetish perfume of the lady who worked there. She stood behind a worn table a few steps from the front door. On the middle of the table lay a gray typewriter surrounded by jars holding ballpoint pens of different colors and little sacks of candy. The lady was young. She had long violet-colored hair teased up in a beehive. She looked like a combination of a lilac bush and Pekinese. I liked her cute face.

After she greeted us warmly, Miss Jorgeser stepped out from behind her desk and came over, cracking her long fingers. With a smile she said that every dog and every cat at the shelter cost two dollars. The money from the sale went to the Animal Protection Fund.

My mother nodded. Papa mumbled something under his breath. I was afraid he’d say that two bucks was too expensive for buying just one dog. Instead he sniffed like a dog and looked away impatiently. He was always in a hurry, especially when there were women talking.

The shelter had two hundred dogs and a hundred cats. The poor things stood or sat in their crates behind bars and waited for someone to stand in front of them and smile. With this smile began every, even the briefest, love.

Miss Jorgeser took us slowly from crate to crate. The eyes of all the dogs and cats behind the bars were sad. Their gaze made me sad. But when I finally caught sight of Goldie, the golden retriever, at the end of the room, I jumped up and down, thrilled, and clapped my hands. Her golden fur was like my hair. Her wide-open eyes were full of hope. As soon as our eyes met, we knew we belonged to each other. If I had had a tail, I would have been wagging it happily, betraying my joy at the encounter, which profoundly shaped my ability to learn how to love someone in the coming years and survive the departures of those who left me.

When Papa finally handed Miss Jorgeser the two dollars for Goldie, she looked me over. Her speckled green eyes jumped between my blond curly hair, my blue eyes, and the birthmark to the left of my upper lip. Then she blinked and looked over at my Mama and Papa, gauging precisely the shade of black of their hair and eyes.

After she had checked us out, Miss Jorgeser told my Mama in a sweet voice that I looked just like that actress, Marilyn Monroe. I had hoped she would say I looked like Goldie. Mama quickly drew her dark eyebrows into a stern line and snapped that she, too, had been blond when she was little.

It was there, at the animal shelter, that I first heard the name Marilyn Monroe. For the next few years I heard from all sorts of people, plenty of times, the comment that I was remarkably similar to that actress, Marilyn. But until I was eleven, when my mother, poor mama Marietta, came down with leukemia, I wasn’t particularly interested in M.M. I saw pictures of Monroe in the papers, on TV and on the wall at Papa’s restaurant, but I didn’t pay them much attention. The only thing I liked on the actress’s face were those long false eyelashes that cast a shadow over the outside of her cheekbones. I thought how one day I, too, would wear false eyelashes. Their length and thickness gave the eyes depth. (I must have heard that from my Aunt Paola. She also wore false eyelashes).

A few weeks before my ailing mother died, she told me I should take my birth certificate from the bottom drawer of the old cupboard in the living room. It doubled as my adoption certificate. Mama’s death was the first sad thing I knew in life.

After her death, Papa withdrew for a time into himself, and then he withdrew to the arms of Jenny, a generous waitress. Goldie took over the role of Mama for me. She encouraged me to eat with her protective gaze when I didn’t feel hungry. To write my homework when I didn’t feel like it. To fall asleep curled up next to her when I was scared of something.

One afternoon the two of us finally read my birth certificate. On it was the following information:

1. Place of birth: Los Angeles

2. Mother’s address: unknown

3. Name of the hospital or institution where the child was born: unknown

4. First name of the child: Norma Jeane

5. Last name: unknown

6. Sex: female

7. Number of children born at this birth: probably one

8. Date of birth: Friday, August 3, 1962

9. Father: unknown

10. Child’s race: white

11. Doctor or midwife at birth: unknown

12. Place of registration: Los Angeles, Health Department

13. Adoptive parents: Marietta and Pietro Leone

14. Date of adoption: July 7, 1963

15. Address of adoptive parents: 616 S. Olive Street, Los Angeles, CA 90014

Who Am I?

On Sunday, August 5, 1974, two days after my twelfth birthday, I happened to hear on television that on that day, twelve years before, the actress Marilyn Monroe had died. While the announcer with her thickly made-up lips and eyes said that the dead actress was found by her maid in the bedroom, a still living Marilyn on the screen sang “Happy birthday to you” to the American president. She was wearing a tight flesh-colored dress with a deep neckline. The dress was slicked to her body as if it were a wet glove. The actress’s half-shut eyelids were fringed with long false eyelashes. Their thin shadows played on her porcelain cheeks.

The announcer went on to say in a dramatic tone, among other things, that the cause of death for M. M. was an overdose of sleeping pills. Then she made a point of saying that some of her friends did not believe this official statement. What’s more, they claimed that the actress was nine months pregnant and that she was killed by the father of the child, who at that time was the most popular president in the world. Taking a breath, the speaker added in closing that there was no material evidence for this scandalous and controversial assertion.

But it etched itself in my memory and several years later it gave me food for thought.

Read the rest of this chapter on Facebook at Norma Jean Leone Monroe.

Thank you

Dino took a deep breath of the stale air of the room. What he had just read sounded like a flimsy Hollywood story that, he had to assume, would have an “inspirational ending.” Stories like that sold well. People loved reading sad stories with happy endings. The fact that the sun sets in the evening and then rises again the next morning steals the breath of those who get up at dawn, mused Dino cynically.

And now, breathing deeply himself, but for other reasons, Dino looked back at the electric clock on the night table. It was eleven thirty. Exhausted, he stretched his arms wide as if to free himself of the oppressive presence of Norma Jeane Leone Monroe. The brochure fell from his loosened fingers to the floor. He closed his eyes. But, to his horror, Norma Jeane’s third love strode imperatively into his thoughts, the mysterious golden-mouthed Estella Dalixia Martin Gomez Velasquez.

Punch-drunk Dino began painfully gulping down spit again, at the same time measuring in his mind’s eye the bare, bronzed body of Estella Dalixia, Veljko’s slumbering voice undulated like a slow tidal wave through the quiet room.

“The two most important things in boatbuilding: safety and balance. OK.”

* *

READ THIS IN THE ORIGINAL

Featured image: “Hitchcock & Marilyn” (2001) by Neda Miranda Blažević-Kreitzman. Images in the text: Johan Barrios from the series “Surfaces” (2010). Curated by Marisa Espínola of Espacio en Blanco. (More)

Marilyn Monroe, moja majka

Pola Oloixarac — Fri, 29 Aug 2014 00:50:21 +0000

Neda Miranda Blažević-Krietzman

Mnogi ljudi se neuspješno bore s nelagodom i strahom od letenja zrakoplovom. Dino Lučić i Veljko Linić nisu pripadali toj skupini ljudi. Ta dvojica mlađih, poslovnih muškaraca iz Splita su sada mirno sjedila na svojim sjedalima u zrakoplovu koji je letio iz Frankurta u Los Angeles i neuspješno se borila jedino sa snom koji im je zaklapao otežale očne kapke, lomeći tako njihove putničke namjere da virkaju kroz prozorčić u blistavo, plavo nebo po kojemu je plužila njihova brza plovilica.

Dino Lučić je bio visok, tanak i tamnokos, a Veljko Linić srednje visine, mišićav i plavook. Obojica su radila u Jedrogradnji, tvrtci koja je gradila i prodavala sportske i motorne jedrilice. Jedrogradnjini najbolji kupci su bili Amerikanci. S tvrtkom The B & B Brothers Inc. u Los Angelesu, predstavnici Jedrogradnje surađivali su gotovo četiri godine.

Lučić i Linić su bili prijatelji iz gimnazijskih dana. Kada je 1991. u Hrvatskoj započeo Domovinski rat, njihova generacija je upravo bila maturirala. Dino Lučić, koji je imao strinu i strica u Kanadi, otišao je u Ottawu gdje je studirao na istoimenome sveučilištu. Poslije četiri godine je diplomirao međunarodnu trgovinu i financije. Studiranje mu je također pomoglo da dobro nauči engleski i francuski. Ubrzo nakon primitka diplome Dino je dobio službenički posao u Sal-Monu, velikoj tvornici za preradu ribe. Radio je naporno, ali čilo. Dvije godine poslije, njegove radišnost, brzina u obavljanju poslova i, kao što to često biva u sličnim slučajevima, Dinova visina i zgodnoća, su mu priskrbili unapređenje u pomoćnika glavnoga menadžera u Sal-Monovu odsjeku za financije. Poslovanje na globalnome tržištu podrazumijevalo je česta putovanja u različite krajeve svijeta: Kinu, Japan, Srednji Istok, Sjevernu i Južnu Ameriku. To novo i dobro plaćeno Dinovo radno mjesto je bilo fizički i mentalno vrlo zahtijevno. Ali Dino je bio jak i ambiciozan. Na putovanjima je često sretao pametne i zgodne žene kojima je zapinjao za oči kao kakav rijetki, blistavi dragulj. No užurbani Dino još nije bio spreman za monogamnu vezu. Kratki, ljubavni susreti sa ženama koje je upoznavao na službenim sastancima, međunarodnim sajmovima hrane i u barovima diljem obje Amerike, Azije, Srednjega Istoka i Europe, bili su Dinu emocionalno i fizički dovoljni. Vjerovao je da mu je život bio idealan sve dok ga jedne noći, ubrzo nakon njegova trideset i drugoga rođendana, varljiva snaga nostalgije nije probudila i projicirala mu u mislima mentalne slike njegovih roditelja, rodnoga grada Splita, prijatelja iz djetinjstva i njegove srednjoškolske ljubavi Karmele, zavodljive brinete u koju su bili zaljubljeni gotovo svi dečki iz škole.

Dva mjeseca poslije opširnih pregovora s nostalgijom i svojim pretpostavljenima u Sal-Monu, Dino je dao otkaz i vratio se kući u Split. Tri mjeseca kasnije se oženio s Karmelom, medicinskom tehničarkom koja je radila u Gradskoj ljekarni. Karmela je bila rastavljena i imala je petogodišnjega sina.

Na Dinovu i Karmelinu vjenčanju je bio i njihov stari prijatelj Veljko Linić. Inženjer brodogradnje, otac dviju djevojčica i muž pravnice Mirjane, Linić je radio kao brodski projektant i konstruktor u ekonomski slaboj Jedrogradnji. Bio je radišan i mučaljiv. Jedine stvari o kojima je volio govoriti dugo i iscrpno su bili brodski motori i konstrukcije svih vrsta brodova. Prijatelji su ga zbog toga zvali Veljo Mu-tor. No taj podrugljivi nadimak nije spriječio Linića da osvoji nagradu Udruženja europskih brodograditelja za svoju inovaciju – Ugradnja sigurnosnih ventila u sistem hlađenja motora. Nekoliko skandinavskih i njemačkih brodogradilišta ponudilo mu je posao s dobrom plaćom, ali Veljko ih je sve glatko odbio, rekavši da – Ne bi tija da mi jednega dana negdi u tuđini vlastita dica počmu govorit sa menom na jeziku koji jedva razumin.

Ponovni susret dvojice starih prijatelja, Dina i Veljka, glatko se nastavio tamo gdje je zastao prije četrnaest godina. Direktor Jedrogradnje, Mate Škoro, ponudio je Dinu posao. Škoro se s pravom nadao se da ċe Dinovo poznavanje globalnih tržišta, stranih jezika i kultura, i Veljkova inženjerska genijalnost, pomoċi Jedrogradnji da se probije na prekoocenska područja. Ta jednostavna matematika je udružila dvojicu starih prijatelja u uspješan dvojac u kojem su obojica postala i kormilari i članovi posade.

I sada, dok su se jaki vjetar i visoki valovi Tihoga oceana takmičili tko će od njih s više snage udariti u kamenite i pješčane obale zapadne Kalifornije, njihova neslomljiva krila su ujedno služila vještim jedriličarima i daskašima na valova kao prirodno gorivo za vratolomije koje su vrtoglavo prkosile zbunjenoj gravitaciji.

Jedan lakši udar vjetra je zatresao i zrakoplov u kojem su letjeli zaspali Linić i Lučić. Tréšnja ih je obojicu probudila, sileći ih da se bunovno pogledaju. Nakon sekundu, dvije, Veljko je mljacnuo suhim jezikom, a Dino protrljao zamućene oči. Ništa opasnoga, tek kljucanje vjetra po krilima. Potom su oba muškarca okrenula glave prema prozorčiću zrakoplova, malo pognuvši vratove. U žedne poglede su im uplovile razgledničke slike Tihoga oceana. Njegova nepregledna, naborana koža bila je istočkana bijelim, plavim i crvenim jedrilicama koje su brzale kroz vodu kao razigrani dupini. Neke od tih jedrilica su bile napravljene u Jedrogradnji. I dok su s malim osmijesima na licima Veljko i Dino pomno pratili njihovo poskakivanje na krijestama valova, kroz glave su im protjecale ublizančene misli. Obojica su bila sigurna da će se njihov novi model motorne jedrilice ST22 i jedrogradnjina krilatica za tu jedrilicu, Hvatajte vjetar s nama! Catch the Wind With Us!, jako svidjeti Amerikancima.

Dobre krilatice za sve proizvode su poveċavale njihovu prodaju. U nastavničkome predmetu Reklamiranje i predstavljanje novih proizvoda na tržištu, Dino je naučio da simbolizam i pozitivno značenje slike i riječi u reklami ili krilatici imaju presudnu moć u kupčevu poistovjećivanju s predmetom koji je želio ili željela kupiti. Naprimjer, u Jedrogradnjinoj novoj reklami, fotografija bijele jedrilice ukošene na visokome, plavome valu i riječi hvatajte vjetar s nama, simbolizirale su pokret, brzinu, slobodu i zajedništvo.

I dok je sada, poslije devet sati zamorna leta, zrakoplov iz Frankfurta konačno slijetao na LAX, los anđelesku zračnu luku, sunčeva užarena, svibanjska kugla je sporo padala prema ravnome, pacifičkome obzoru posutu zlatnim krljuštima koje su se ljeskale na mrežastoj vodi, još uvijek načičkanoj ukošenim jedrilicama i uspravnim brodovima.

Iako su Lučić i Linić već tri puta bili u gradu raznobojnih anđela, svaki put ih je na širokim ulicama, trgovima i avenijama iznenađivalo nešto novo, uvijek izazivajuće, a ponekad bogme i zapanjujuċe. Prošle su godine, naprimjer, bili nabasali na neki mali trg na kojemu je mladić s narančasto obojenom dugom kosom, tetoviranim licem i zelenom iguanom u naručju, gušterom dugim oko jednoga metra, izvodio svoju umjetničku točku. (Ili je to bila cirkuska točka. Dino i Veljko nisu bili sigurni.)

Za svoj performance s iguanom ulični izvođač je tražio jedan dolar od svojih gledatelja. No, dobro su dolazile i kovanice. I dok su poneka novčanica i zveckavi sitniš padali s vremena na vrijeme u mladićev crveni, prevrnuti šešir polegnut na pločniku korak ispred njega, on je oprezno stavljao u usta dugoljstu, rožnatu iguaninu glavu i onda je polako vadio iz usta. Urešena dugim, okoštanim šiljcima, gušterova glava je izgledala kao živa kruna koja je svakoga trena mogla probiti nepce svoga gospodara. Konačno, nakon što se iguanino tijelo umrtvilo od jednoličnih pokreta toga rituala, hladnokrvi izvođač točke je počeo gurati gušterovu glavu sve dublje i dublje u svoja usta.

Gledatelji su različito reagirali. Neki su se počeli nervozno smijati, drugi su odmahivali rukom, treći su izražavali gađenje, četvrti su glasno vikali – Yeah! Yeah! –

Jedna pretila žena u cvjetastoj haljini je počela ispuštati tanke vriskove, a jedan američki Afrikanac je glasno dobacio – Brother, tu se više ne zna tko je čovjek a tko životinja! Jadna životinja! –

Dino i Veljko su samo razmijenili poglede. Obrve su im bile visoko podignute kada su se konačno okrenuli i otišli s trga.

Ove godine su obojica bila sigurna da će los-anđeleska ponuda uličnih predstava vrvjeti gutačima egzotičnih životinja, vatre i naoštrenih mačeva.

I dok je purpurna mrklina padala s neba na anđelov grad, koji je veċ bio osvijetljen tisućama svjetala, dvojica splićana su čekala taksi na nogostupu ispred velikih, trokrilnih vrata zračne luke. S ramena su im visjele crne, sportske torbe s laptopima. Pokraj nogu su im ležali mali, tamno plavi kovčezi. Lučić i Linić su po navici gledali uokolo ne bi li spazili nekoga oriđinala čiji izgled i ponašanje bi ih malo trgnuli, ili pak neku zgodnu djevojku koja bi im izmamila uzdah. Njihovo zirkanje prekinuo je reski glas vozačice taksija koja je zaustavila svoj plavo-zeleni auto točno ispred mjesta na kojemu su splićani stajali.

– Gospodo – sporo ih je oslovila taksistica, izlazeći iz auta.

– Dobra večer – Dino je odgovorio na engleskome bez naglaska, hitro grabeći svoj putni kovčeg s pločnika.

Veljko ga je slijedio, mahnuvši glavom platinasto-blondoj taksistici. Taj nijemi pozdrav mu je ujedno poslužio i kao precizni mjerač taksistkinjina izgleda i godina. Bila je zgodna. Veljko joj nije mogao točno odrediti godine. Negdje između trideset i četrdeset, mislio je.

Taksistica mu se nasmiješila. Znala je kakva su mu se pitanja motala po glavi. Stoga je ohrabrila Veljkovu maštu laganim micanjem uvojka sa svoga glatkoga čela, zatičući ga iza desnoga uha. No neposlušni uvojak odmah se izvio i vratio na svoje prijašnje mjesto.

Veljko se i sam oprezno nasmiješio. Taksistica je potom odlučila da završi s tom malom igrom, pa se okrenula i, njišući oblim bokovima, pošla prema prtljažniku taksija. Korak prije nego što je stala, koketno je odbacila blagim zamahom glave isti, bršljasti pramen kose s desnoga oka. Bila je uvjerena da je Veljko još uvijek gleda, pa je vrhovima prstiju lagano popravila duboki izrez na ružičastoj majici koju je nosila. Majica, poprskana žuto smeđim leopardovim pjegama, tijesno joj se pripijala uz robusni torzo.

Ženine tamno ljubičaste hlače jasno su isticale njezinu čvrstu, okruglu stražnjicu. Plave sandale s visokim potpeticama, prošarane tigrovim uzorkom, svjedočile su da je taksistica bila ljubiteljica divljih životinja, žustra članica neke teretane i prilično dobra imitatorica nedokučive Marilyn Monroe. (Los Angeles je bio Meka ženskih i muških imitatora slavne glumice.)

Nakon što su Veljko i Dino stavili svoje stvari u taksijev prtljažnik, naglo su ih počeli svladavati pospanost i umor. Topli, kalifornijski zrak i devet sati vremenske razlike između Splita i Los Angelesa odjednom su ih udarili kao divovsko, satno njihalo. Obojica su se počela znojiti. Jedva su čekali da se dočepaju hotela i tuša.

I dok su se sada njih dvojica svaljivala na zadnja sjedala taksija, platinasta vozačica ih je ležerno zapitala – Kamo idemo? –

– Hollywood, hotel Luna Luna – odvratio je Dino, brišući papirnatim rupčićem znoj s čela.

Taksistica je mahnula glavom, uključila hlađenje i krenula. Dok su izlazili iz los- anđeleske zračne luke na Sepulveda Boulevard, žena je bacila letimičan pogled na sjedalo pokraj nje. Na sjedalu je ležala smeđa, kartonska kutija napunjenja nekim brošurama.

Bilo je gotovo devet navečer. Blješteća svjetla uličnih neona, masivnih prozora na visokim zgradama i divovskih ploča s raznobojnim reklamama, pružala su stanovnicima Los Angelesa iluziju da žive na neugasivoj, noćnoj zvijezdi.

Nakon nekoliko minuta vožnje malaksali Veljko je zaspao. Usta su mu bila malo otškrinuta. Lijeva ruka položena uz tijelo. Desna lagano svinuta u laktu. Izgledao je kao Zaspali dječak na platnu nježnoga talijanskoga slikara kasne renesanse, Michelangela Caravaggia.

Vozačica taksija, koja je s vremena na vrijeme pogledavala kroz prozor, sada je ustremila pogled u zrcalo pričvršćeno udesno iznad njezine glave. Odslik njezinih plavih, meko našminkanih očiju je tražio u zrcalu odraz Dinovih, tamnih očiju.

On najprije nije obraćao pažnju na vozačicu. Bezizražajno je gledao kroz prozor auta, mrijesteći se na sjedalu. Tražio je ugodniji položaj za svoje duge noge.

Vozačica je međutim bila strpljiva. Slijedećih nekoliko minuta je u pravilnim intervalima nastavila pogledavati u zrcalo, znajući da će visoki muškarac na sjedalu iza nje konačno osjetiti odslik njezina pogleda na sebi. Tako je i bilo.

– U L.U-u ste zbog posla ili razonode? – žena je upitala dok se odraz njezinih prodornih očiju u zrcalu ukrižio s ogledalnim odslikom Dinovih pospanih očiju.

– Posla – Dino je odvratio kratko. Nije bio raspoložen za razgovor.

Vozačica, kojoj se očito razgovaralo, nije se dala samo tako lako smesti. – Ali malo zabave u L.A-u nikad ne škodi, zar ne? –

– Naravno – Dino je odvratio, znajući otprilike kamo je obično vodio sadržaj ovakva razgovora; prema dosadnoj prognozi vremena, turizmu i ostalim prigodnim, taksističkim čavrljanjima.

– Pretpostavljam da u trenucima razonode nalazite vremena i za čitanje – meko je nastavila vozačica taksija.

Njezina prepostavka je iznenadila Dina. Čitanje kao razonoda u Los Angelesu? Mora da se žena šalila, pomislio je. A onda opet, možda i nije, brzopotezno je zaključio Dino. Analitičan kakav je već bio, odmah je pomislio da je to vjerojatno neka holivudska lozinka ili trik kojim su mešetari u raznim nezakonitim poslovima, uključujući prodavanje droga i prostituciju, nastojali privući ovim smiješnim pitanjem svoje klijente u krug svoje bezobzirne prodaje. Čitanja. Čitanja čega? Dino je brzo nastavio vagati svoja mentalna pitanja. Knjiga? Kakvih knjiga? O mislima? Snovima? Dlanovima?

I dok se Dino tako u sebi pitao, sitna, ironična grimasa titrala mu je na licu. On je bio poslovan čovjek i znao je gotovo sve trikove koje je prodaja bilo čega mogla ponuditi potencijalnim kupcima. Ali još nikada do sada nijedan taksist ni taksistica nisu ga pitali da li se u gradu koji posjećuje razonodi čitanjem. Ozbiljnim čitanjem.

– Znam, moje pitanje nije uobičajeno u ovakvim profesionalno-društvenim situacijama. Ali eto, ja volim čitati, pa mi se stoga čini logičnim razgovarati o čitanju knjiga s mojim strankama – taksistica je čitala Dinove misli.

On se ponovo promeškoljio u sjedalu i potvrdno klimnuo glavom. Još uvijek sumnjičav, čekao je da vozačica nastavi s pobližim uputstvima za razumijevanje pitanja koje mu je postavila.

Ona je to odmah marljivo učinila, rekavši u prisnome tonu – Mnoge moje stranke dolaze iz različitih krajeva svijeta, pa često od njih saznam imena pisaca koji su napisali zanimljive knjige na njihovu jeziku. Zato, ako vas smijem upitati, tko je vaš omiljeni pisac? –

Dino je prevrnuo očima kao osmoškolac i uzdahnuo. Još uvijek nije znao kojim putem bi krenuo. Da se upusti u neki quasi-akademski razgovor s vozačicom taksija koja je, po svemu sudeći, studirala englesku književnost ili takvo što, ili da joj kaže da je umoran od puta i da jedino o čemu sada misli je čista postelja? I dok je Dio zaustio da joj kaže kako ne može dočekati da se baci na tu željenu postelju, taksistica se okrenula prema njemu i nasmiješila se. U prigušenu svjetlu taksija njezino lice izgledalo je mlado i svježe.

Dino je progutao slinu. Pomislio je da u ovome trenu ne bi bilo zgodno da spomene postelju i bacanje na nju. Ali što da odgovori? Da nema omiljena pisca. Da uglavnom čita stručne knjige koje su napisali ekonomisti i bankari. A možda da zijevne i kaže da je umoran. No vozačica taksija bi ga tada mogla upitati otkuda su stigli on i njegov suputnik i koliko dugo će ostati u Los Angelesu. Ne, Dino se nije nikako nije želio upuštati u širenje razgovora s taksisticom.

Kao da je glatko čitala Dinove neodlučne misli, žena je ponovo okrenula svoj meki profil prema njemu i rekla umirujućim glasom – Vi ste vjerojatno jako zaposleni, pa nemate puno vremena za čitanje. To je razumljivo. –

– Da – Dino je promumljao i duboko udahnuo hladni, klimatizirani zrak. Grlo ga je zaboljelo. Male struje bola odmah su izazvale paniku u njegovu žuborećem želudcu. Posljednja stvar koja mu je sada trebala je bila upala grla. Nije smio piti toliko vode s ledom u tim zagušljivim zrakoplovima, mislio je dok su ga plitki valovi sline prisiljavali da ih ponovo guta i tako testira količinu bola u grlu.

Vozačica taksija je shvatila Dinovu šutnju kao ohrabrenje da nastavi sama sa sobom razgovor o čitanjuje i najdražim piscima. – Sigurna sam da znate tko je William Saroyan. Američki književnik. Fantastičan dramatičar. Meni čak draži i od samoga Tennessija Williamsa. Da, svi imamo svoje simpatije. Zar ne? –

I ne čekajuċi ni sekunde Dina da odgovori na njezino pitanje, taksistica je nastavila u melodičnome tonu – Evo, baš mi je na um pala jedna anegdota o Saroyanu. U razgovoru s nekim novinarom je rekao da bismo se mi čitači trebali osjećati na svršetku svake dobre knjige iscrpljenima. Zar to nije duhovito rečeno? –

Konačno prestajući gutati slinu, Dino je htio odgovoriti da je on veċ itekako iscrpljen, baš kao da je pročitao posljednju knjigu toga Saroyana i da zbog svoje isrpljenosti više ne može razgovarati. Ali onda mu se nenadano probudila taština koja ga je nukala da odgovori zgodnoj taksistici kako je u proteklih petnaestak godina pročitao popriličan naramak romana i drama američkih i modernih klasika, i da bi o njima mogao raspravljati do jutra, ali eto, ne može zato što ga grlo jako boli. Istovremeno je u Dinovoj svijesti bljesnulo svjetlo za alarm, upozoravajuċi ga da se suzdrži od te nakane. Što ako vozačica taksija iskoristiti to njegovo hvalisanje kao svoj novi napad u kojemu bi, bio je siguran, uplela i neke junačke, ruske klasike o kojima on nije znao gotovo ništa. Doduše, gledao je na televiziji film Rat i Mir. Previše likova. Previše ljubavnih zapetljaja. Premalo prave akcije. Zaspao je na kauču prije nego što se neki smušenjak, Bezukhov, ako se dobro sjeċao njegova imena, oženio ženom u koju čak nije bio ni zaljubljen. Prava sapunica, mislio je Dino, zijevnuvši.

Vozačica taksija je opet okrznula Dina jednim brzim pogledom u zrcalu. – Jeste li možda čitali Saroyana? – ponovo je meko upitala.

Ovaj put Dino se nije mogao obraniti šutnjom. Premda nikada prije nije čuo za toga Williama Saroyana, mumljajući je odgovorio – Da, da, Saroyan je znao što govori. –

Strpljiva, plavokosa taksistica je okrenula glavu prema Dinu i značajno ga pogledala u oči.

On se odmah pobojao da bi ga njegov lakomisleni, lažni odgovor mogao uvaliti u dvosmisleno-besmisleni razgovor o temi neke zapetljane knjige koju je napisao taj Saroyan i količini iscrpljenosti koju je on, Dino, osjetio na svršetku te knjige. (Nije od umora mogao zaklopiti njezine tužne korice.) Ali, ne, Dino se ni ovaj put nije dao uvuċi u besplodni razgovor o knjigama. Nije htio lagati da ih je pročitao. Svoju odluku je popratio laganim nakašljavanjem. Nadao se da ċe to njegovo strateško kašljucanje dati vozačici do znanja da je shrvan prehladom i da više ne može učestvovati u razgovoru s njom.

Ali raspoložena žena nije samo tako lako htjela pustiti Dina da se sažalijeva sam nad sobom. Osim toga, nije svakoga dana vozila tako zgodna muškarca u svome taksiju. Stoga ga je zaskočila novim pojedinostima o Saroyanu i sebi. – Vidite, Saroyan je na neki način moj književni i ljudski uzor. Rođen je u Californiji, baš kao i ja. Roditelji su mu došli iz Armenije u Ameriku. Otac mu je umro kad su Williamu bile tri godine. Obitelj se raspala. On, brat i sestra su završili u sirotištu. Kasnije su se ponovo ujedinili s majkom. Život je bio težak. Saroyan, koji nije imao ništa osim svoga talenta za promatranje svijeta oko sebe, počeo je pisati o tome svijetu i o sebi. I eto! Amerika i svijet su dobili novoga genija! Nije li to fantastična priča? –

Dino je klimnuo glavom i beznadno uzdahnuo.

Vozačica taksija je onda taktički nehajno dodala – I ja pomalo pišem. –

Dino se počešao po čelu. Dogodilo mu se upravo to čega se pribojavao. Taksistica je bila nepoznata spisateljica, željna razgovora o sebi i svome pisanju. Fantomska književnica dakle. U tome grmu je znači bila njezina klopka. Zasuti ga pričama koje nikada neċe biti napisati. Heh, svatko je danas želio biti pisac. Što je bilo tako primamljivo u toj profesiji? Zapažanje da je svijet zeznut s koje god strane ga pogledaš?, umovao je Dino, ponovo bolno gutajuċi slinu koja mu se nekontrolirano skupljala u ustima. Prstima lijeve ruke je obuhvatio svoj hladni vrat i ponovo se nakašljao, želeċi tom kretnjim i čišċenjem grla dati još jednom nadobudnoj vozačici-spisateljici do znanja da ga prestane daviti zamarajuċim pričama o pisanju i tome Strahoyanu, ili kako se veċ taj William zvao.

Taksistica kao da je čekala da Dino privede kraju tok svojih uzburkanih misli. Kada je prestao kašljucati, nakrivila je malo glavu i ponovo mu se koketno nasmiješila u ogledalu. – Ne osjeċate se dobro? –

– A ne, dobro sam, dobro – Dino je brzo slagao. Nije htio da mu revna vozačica-spisateljica sada počne preporučivati lokalne saune u kojima bi mogao izznojiti sve skrivene boleštine iz svoga tijela i poslije toga uživati u masaži kojom bi ga neka spretna maserka lijepo uspavala. ( A tko zna, možda bi ga poslije toga i nježno probudila.)

Ove s vedra neba pale misli prisilile su Dina da brzim, laserskim pogledom obrubi taksističina izbrušena, atletska ramena i gole ruke. Ponovo je progutao slinu. Nebesa! Nije se sada smio uvaliti u neku suhu, erotsku fantaziju. To je bilo zadnje što mu je sada trebalo, Dino se nijemo uvjeravao, lupkajuċi se prstima desne ruke po bedru.

I dok je on tako sebi strogo zabranjivao da počne zamišljati kako taksistica polako otkopčava tri dugmeta na svojoj majici ukrašenoj leopardovim pjegama, ona je rekla s dobro podešenim tonom optimizma u glasu – Da se ponovo vratim Saroyanu. Zar njegova životna priča nije inspirativna? –

Dino se trgnuo. Opet taj Saroyan. I sada još i inspiracija prišivena uz njegove priče. Ako je Dina išta moglo oneraspoložiti i smanjiti mu umnu i fizičku potenciju, onda je to bila riječ inspiracija. Te se riječi do sita naslušao i na fakultetu i na svome prvome radnome mjestu. Mnogi njegovi predavači i kolege na poslu su tvrdili da čovjeku sve može biti inspiracija. I siromaštvo i izgubljena utakmica i prekid s curom ili dečkom kojemu se, ili kojoj se, naprimjer, ne sviđaju šale o kokošima i kupaċim kostimima. Ali Dino nije vjerovao u tu teoriju utopijskoga optimizma čija se zastava, po njemu, zvala Inspiracijom.

Dinovo oklijevanje da vozačici odgovori na njezino pitanje ona je protumačila kao njegovo slaganje s njom. Čežnjivo mu se nasmiješila u ogledalcu.

Zapleten u kovitlac svojih protivriječnih misli, Dinu nije preostalo drugo nego da ovlašno klimne glavom i procijedi – Da, Saroyanova priča je vrlo inspirativna. –

Vozačica taksija je bila zadovoljna Dinovim školskim odgovorom. – Vidite, kao što sam veċ rekla, Saroyanov surovi život me inspirirao da napišem moju životnu priču. Točnije, autobiografiju. Naslov joj je, Marilyn Monroe, moja majka. –

Dino se ponovo trgnuo. Premda je očekivao da će taksistica početi recitirati holivudski bombastične naslove knjiga koje vjerojatno nikada neće izaći iz njezine knjiške radionice i, u tome smislu, biti objavljene, ipak ga je uspjela iznenaditi. Napisala je autobiografiju s naslovom u kojemu je sjala, ni manje ni više, nego sama Marilyn Monroe? Vozačicina navodna majka. Dino se htio nasmijati, ali se ipak suzdržao. Nije se želio umiješati svojom ironijom u taksističin izmišljeni život. Poznavao je nekoliko žena i muškaraca koji su izmišljali priče o zanimljivim pothvatima u kojima nikada nisu sudjelovali. I sve to samo zato da bi impresionirali i sebe same i one čiji životi su bili još ravniji i neuzbudljiviji od njihovih.

Tišina, koja je taksistici trebala pokazati dužinu i dubinu Dinova iznenađenja prouzrokovana njezinim izgovaranjem imena Marilyn Monroe i imenice majka, protegla se izvan uobičajene vremenske granice koja je obično iznosila pet napetih sekundi. Dino je, međutim, bio iznimka u tome pravilu. On je volio analizirati, procijenjivati, kritizirati i davati sebi više mjesta u razgovoru koji je voljno ili protiv svoje volje vodio s nekim. Zato je ostavio taksisticu da nestrpljivo čeka njegov odgovor, njegovu reakciju na to što mu je upravo bila rekla.

Da bi podcrtao svoju iznenadnu kontrolu nad ovom djetinjastom situacijom, Dino se počeškao po koščatu laktu i ponovo pogledom okrznuo vozačicin meki profil. Po njezinu izgledu, načinu govora i mišljenju, činilo mu se da je bila korak ispred lažaca-pisaca-početnika zato što je napisala autobiografiju o tome kako joj je Marilyn Monroe majka. Ideja nije bila loša, umovao je Dino. Ali po onome što je on znao o Marilyn Monroe, zaključio je da je ta plamteċa glumica bila mnogima dobar mamac za stvaranje njihove besmislene slave i, naravno, lake zarade novca. I eto, zagonetka je riješena. Vozačica taksija je željela upravo to. Kriščicu senzaciolističke slave i novac koji ċe se prilijepiti uz tu njezinu petminutnu slavu.

Zadovoljan svojom pronicljivošću, Dino se nadmoćno nasmiješio.

Malo zatečena Dinovim šutljivim osmijehom (ta maloprije mu je rekla da je njezina majka bila Marilyn Monroe), vozačica taksija se još jednom nasmiješila zrcalu na svojoj desnoj strani, loveći u njemu Dinov nadmoċni pogled.

Uzdahnuvši, on je taktički svrnuo oči na Veljka koji još uvijek čvrsto spavao i glasno puhao kroz otvorena usta. Potom je Dino ležerno vratio pogled natrag na zrcalo u kojemu se sada odslikavao profil iznenada nezadovoljne vozačice taksija. Dok je kriomice promatrao desnu stranu nezina čela nad kojim se njihao plavi, neposlušni uvojak, kosinu prċasta nosa i kut njezinih stisnutih usnica, Dino nije mogao zanijekati njezinu meku sličnost s Marilyn Monroe. Ali kozmetička kirurgija danas je mogla pretvoriti bilo koga u bilo koga, kritični Dino je odmah bezglasno dodao sam sebi, nakašljavajuċi se. Grlo ga je sve više boljelo.

– Vi znate tko je bila Marilyn Monroe? Ne? – vozačica taksija je konačno upitala suhim, učiteljskim glasom.

Dino je zaustio da kaže nešto sarkastično, poput, ne znam točno tko je bila M. M., ali znam da je moj stari skrivao njezine fotke ispod praznih, pivskih boca u garaži. No, uljudni pogled vozačice taksija ga je podsjetio na to da mora biti pristojan. Osim toga, nije želio da mu ona počne objašnjavati tko je bila Marilyn Monroe i kakve veze taj Staroyan ima s njih dvije. Stoga je Dino samo promumljao – Da, da, znam tko je bila Marilyn Monroe. –

Taksistica je malo nakrivila glavu udesno. Nije bila sigurna zašto Dino nije pokazivao više zanimanja za njezinu životnu priču u kojoj je Marilyn Monroe igrala glavnu ulogu. Tâ ona je svakoga zanimala. U bilo kakvoj kombinaciji s drugim ljudima, veċ samo ime Marylin je privlačilo svačiju pažnju. Vozačica taksija je plitko uzdahnula, okrenula glavu prema Dinu i namješteno nehajno ga upitala – Znate li da je Marilyn Monroe bila jedna od rijetkih holivudskih glumica koja nije imala niti jednu korektivnu operaciju? Ni nosa. Ni očnih kapaka. Ni usana. Ni ušiju. Ni prsa. Ona je bila prirodno savršena. –

– Da, slažem se, Marilyn Monroe je bila prirodno savršena – Dino je odgovorio brzo i spremno, pomičući svoje duge, utrnule noge s lijeve strane na desnu. Upornost kojom ga je vozačica taksija željela zatočiti u razgovor s njom ponovo ga je podsjetila na ljude koji su bili u stalnome lovu na petminutnu slavu. Jednom je Dino gledao na televiziji emisiju o ženama i muškarcima koji su unajmljivali i skupo plaćali takozvana pisca-duha da napiše pod njihovim imenom neko besmisleno, skandalozno štivo kojega bi milijuni ljudi čitali samo zato što im je vlastiti život bio još prazniji od života tih mlatitelja šupljih fantazija. U toj istoj televizijskoj emisiji Dino je vidio i jednoga sredovječna muškarca koji je nepokolebljivo tvrdio da posjeduje papire u kojima je stajalo da je on pra-pra-pra-praunuk Isusa Krista i Marije Magdalene i da posjeduje sve Kristove božanske darove. Da bi to dokazao, muškarac je ispričao da je kao dvadeset i trogodišnjak pao s desetoga kata zgrade u kojoj je stanovao, preživio pad, ali je ostao u komi. Nakon petnaest godina se neočekivano probudio. Prva ideja koja mu je pala na um je bila da razapne uže između dva nebodera u New Yorku i prijeđe preko njega bez štapa za balansiranje. Glatko je uspio u toj nakani. Potom je napisao knjigu o tome kako je znao i osjećao od prvoga dana svoga rođenja da je pra-pra-pra-praunuk Isusa Krista i njegove sljedbenice Marije Magdalene. Knjiga se dobro prodavala nekoliko mjeseci zato što je negodovanje članova nekih vjerskih zajednica diglo javnu prašinu oko, po njima, blasfemične teme te knjige, dajuċi joj tako neočekivani i nezasluženi publicitet.

Ali tko je određivao što je zasluženo, a što nezasluženo? Dino se nije htio previše zamarati tim dijelovima Kritičkoga mišljenja.

I dok je sada sa zadnjega sjedala taksija promatrao desni dio tankoga, ali čvrstoga vrata spretne vozačice, sitan, ironičan osmijeh ponovo mu se namreškao na licu. Sada je bio potpuno siguran u to da je ona bila jedna od mnogih lovaca-pisaca na slamnatu slavu. Nešto u držanju vozačicine lagano nakošene glave i povremeno upiranje pogleda u zrcalo iznad nje podsjetilo je Dina na televizijske lovce na slavu. Mnogi od tih lovaca su isto tako sugestivno zurili u voditelje emisija u kojima su učestvovali, lagano nakrivljujući glave kao gladne ptice. I sve te ptice su uvjerljivo tvrdile da su u krvnoj vezi s nekim slavnim pokojnicima i pokojnicama. Uglavnom glumcima, princezama, kraljevima, kraljicama, glumicama, predsjednicima ubijenima u atentatima, čak i ruskim carevima.

Po naslovu knjige koji je vozačica taksija bila spomenula, Dino ju je uvrstio u kategoriju lovaca na rodoslovnu slavu. Željela je biti prepoznata kao kćer Marilyn Monroe, a ne kao bezimena vozačica taksija. U čemu je bila razlika između tih dvaju identičnih lica? Dino je kratko razmišljao dok je jezikom šarao po upaljenu nepcu. Razlika je bila u zaradi love i nekoliko fotki objavljenih u jeftinom, žutim novinama, neumoljivo je zaključivao Dino, dotičuċi vrškom jezika jednu bolnu točku na samome dnu nepca.

Revna taksistica međutim nije dala Dinu da je samo tako izbaci iz njezinih spisateljskih vóda. Povisivši malo ton svoga sutonskoga glasa, namješteno sjetno mu je dobacila preko ramena – Moj najdraži film s Marilyn u glavnoj ulozi je Muškarci vole plavuše. –

Dino se trgnuo, spustio jezik s nepca duboko u usnu šupljinu i odvratio – Da, to je istina. –

Njegov dvosmisleni odgovor visio je u zujećem zraku nekoliko suhih sekundi.

Vozačica taksija je potom ispustila grleni huh i ponovo koketno okrenula svoj profil prema Dinu. – Kad smo već kod istine, zar vas zbilja ne zanima tko sam ja? –

Dino je progutao kap sline i spremno preusmjerio ženinu udicu, diplomatski joj odgovorivši – Naravno da me zanima. Štoviše, prosto ne mogu vjerovati da se vozim u taksiju s kćeri Marilyn Monroe. –

Doduše, htio je reći da ne može vjerovati da ga vozi kćer jedne M.M., ali opet, nije želio ispasti grub i neotesan.

Taksistica je, naravno, bila dovoljno pronicljiva u iščitavanju Dinova ironična tona i poretka riječi u rečenicama. Bila je navikla na osebujne posebnosti u ponašanju i govoru svojih stranaka. Nije ona nizašto diplomirala američku književnost i psihologiju na Golden Gate Sveučilištu u San Franciscu.

Tišina u taksiju je trajala još nekoliko ispitujućih sekundi.

Strpljiva vozačica je konačno ispravila ukošenu glavu i koketno napućila crvene usne. – Znam da me zafrkavate, ali istina je. Ja sam zaista kćer Marilyn Monroe. Ona je moja biološka majka. –

Dino je potvrdno i nevino klimnuo glavom. Ocijenio je da je pridjev biološka igrao glavnu ulogu u vazačicinoj tvrdnji. Taj zvučni pridjev je trebao podvući znanstvenu legitimnost njezine priče i izazvati u njemu prirodnu radoznalost, možda čak i samilost. Tá ona je izgubila majku. Marilyn Monroe, ni manje ni više. Ta šokantna činjenica je povlačila za sobom nebrojivo puno pitanja. Prvo od njih je moglo biti: Tko je odgojio djevojčicu koje ga je sada, četrdesetak godina poslije glumičine smrti, vozila u svome taksiju? Ne, hvala lijepa, Dino nije bio želio čuti tu izmišljenu priču.

Vozačica taksija je ponovo pogledala u zrcalo. Pogled joj je istovremeno izražavao samopouzdanje i ranjivost.

Dinov pogled se nenamjerno ukrižio u zrcalu s njezinim. Nešto u ženinim očima ga je natjeralo da se ponovo nakašlje i reče – Oprostite na ovoj primjedbi, ali negdje sam pročitao da Marilyn Monroe nije imala djece. –

Taksistica je duboko udahnula, držeći zrak nekoliko sekundi u plućima. Lice joj je bilo napeto, kao da će skočiti u neku nevidljivu vodu. Potom je ispustila zrak, opustila mišiće na licu i odgovorila – Da, znam. Tu su laž proširili oni koji su ubili moju majku. –

Ta tvrda tvrdnja, puna riječi s teškim značenjima, natjerala je Dina da se ušmrkne i skupi ramema kao da mu je postalo hladno. Lagana nervoza mu je prostrujila kroz nemirne prste. Nije znao što bi rekao. Konačno se ponovo nakašljao i promumljao da nije znao za podatak o tim lažima. Htio je ubaciti u svoju rečenicu i pridjev žalosni (podatak), ali nije. Znao je da bi to zvučalo ishitreno i glupo. (Kao uostalome i sve ostalo do sada.)

Vozačica taksija je nastavila priču o Marilyn Monroe u mirnome, ali sugestivnu tonu. – Da, nažalost, moja majka je ubijena. Njezini ubojice su godinama pokušavali ušutkati glasove onih koji su znali kako je umrla. Govorili su da su to puke konspirativne teorije koje hrane žutu štampu. Ali istina uvijek dođe na vidjelo, zar ne? –

Dino je opet potvrdno klimnuo glavom i glasno pročistio grlo. Poput nekoga nespretnoga policijskoga inspektora je zapitao – A vi znate tko je ubio Marylin Monroe? Mislim, vašu majku? –

– Da, naravno – odvratila je vozačica i okrenula glavu, sada prodorno gledajući preko ramena u Dina. Poslije nekoliko sekundi njezin zagonetni pogled se rastopio na njegovu blijedu licu.

Počešavši se po bradi kao priučeni glumac, Dino je htio upitati vozačicu taksija da kako to da ona, kćer jedne Marilyn Monroe, radi kao obična taksistica. Međutim, vrebajuća socijalna osviještenost, ukotvljena na dnu njegove svijesti od dana kada je na sveučilištu položio ispit iz predmeta Svijest pojedinca i kritičko mišljenje, uštipnula ga je za jezik i prišapnula mu da nije pristojno postavljati sugovorniku pitanja koja bi ga na bilo koji način mogla potcijeniti ili uvrijediti. Stoga je samo-opomenuti Dino promijenio pravac razgovora i uljudno zapitao taksisticu – Jeste li pisali o ubojstvu M. M. u vašoj autobiografiji? –

– Naravno – žena je odvratila, ispružila desnu ruku prema kutiji na sjedalu pokraj njezina i uzela s vrha jednu brošuru. Potom ju je pružila preko desnoga ramena Dinu.

– Evo, u ovoj brošurici je nekoliko fotki moje majke i mene, i jedan odlomak iz moje autobiografije. Fotka moga rodnoga lista je na zadnjoj stranici. Sve kristalno jasno i sto posto istinito. –

Dino se nevoljko nagnuo naprijed da dohvati brošuru. Dok ju je uzimao iz vozačicine ruke, pogled mu se spustio na njezino golo rame. Dino se potom instinktivno nagnuo još malo naprijed, puštajući da mu pogled otklizi u duboku crtu vozačicina poprsja.

Glasno je udahnuo zrak oko nje.

Gusto, noćno svjetlo upijalo se u ženinu glatku kožu kao zlatni prah. Jedva osjetan miris cvjetnog parfema, koji je poput nevidljive ogrlice obavijao njezin vrat, u trenu je razbio Dinovu pospanost. Još jednom je duboko udahnuo, pa izdahnuo. Onda ga je oblio val vruċine.

– Ja sam Norma Jeane Leone Monroe – slatko je rekla vozačica taksija, prekidajući Dinovo isprekidano disanje iza njezina namirisana vrata.

On se prenuo, brišuċi prstom znoj iznad gornje usne. Potom se, s brošurom u ruci, polako povukao natrag na sjedalo. – Drago mi je Miss Leone Monroe. Hvala, hvala. Svakako ću pročitati vašu autobiografiju. Zvuči fantastično. –

Norma Jeane se koketno nasmiješila. – Odlično. Baš ste ljubazni. I usput, moju knjigu možete u cijelosti pročitati na Facebooku. –

- Ma dajte! Zbilja? – Dino je brzao, nespretno se namještajući u sjedalu i istovremeno pokrivajući brošurom svoje nabreklo krilo. Nakon toga je bacio sumnjičavi pogled pod ravnim kutom na još uvijek zaspala Veljka.

Slijedećih petnaestak minuta Norma Jeane Leone Monroe i Dino Lučić proveli su u tišini. On se svo to vrijeme borio sa svojom neželjenom uzbuđenošću i prigušenim, ali osjetnim mirisom Normina cvjetnoga parfema.

Ona se nije borila s ničim.

Konačno su dosegli los anđelesku najslavniju četvrt, Hollywood. Hotel Luna Luna nalazio se u zapadnome dijelu Melrose avenije koja je bila obrubljena visokim palmama i stupovima sa svijetlećim reklamama. Na nekima od njih su se smiješila lica Breda Pitta, Kate Winslet, Denzela Washingtona, Halle Berry, Clivea Owena i drugih nasmijanih filmskih zvijezda. Njihovi filmovi trebali uskoro stići u američka kina.

Tu smo – melodično je rekla vozačica, zaustavljajući zeleno-plavi taksi ispred

polukružne, blijedo ružičaste dvokatnice koja je izgledala više kao stambena zgrada, a manje kao hotel.

Prije četrdesetak godina to je i bila kuća s deset jednosobnih stanova. U prizemlju je bilo sklonište za napuštene životinje. Vlasnik je kuću prodao nekome promućurnome hotelijeru koji je računao na goste koji nisu bili bogati, ali koji su si mogli priuštiti pristojan smještaj za dvije, tri noći u razvikanome Hollywoodu. Iznad ulaznih vrata hotela ritmično se palio i gasio neonski naziv Luna Luna. Sobe hotela gledale su na zapadnu, uličnu stranu, a kuhinje s malim dnevnim boravcima i kupaonicama gledale su na južnu stranu na kojoj je bio bazen okružen niskim žbunjem.

Dino i Veljko su bili prvi put u Luni Luni prije godinu dana. Hotel im je preporučio Mike O’Hara, direktor odjela za uvoz u tvrtci B & B Brothers Inc.

I sada, dok je Norma Jeane strpljivo čekala da zapleteni Dino probudi usnula Veljka, paleće i gaseće neonsko svjetlo hotela snimalo ih je u pravilnim intervalima kao mehanički foto aparat s bljeskalicom.

Veljko se konačno probudio. Zbunjen, odmah je počeo okretati glavu lijevo pa desno.

– Di smo? –

– Tu smo – Dino je promrmljao, valjajući u velikim šakama brošuru koju mu je prije petnaestak minuta dala vozačica taksija.

Kad se Veljko konačno pribrao, Dino je strpao smotak u džep hlača i okrenuo glavu prema Normi Jeane Leone Monroe.

– Trideset i jedan dolar – ona je rekla sa smiješkom.

Dino je zabio prste u mali džep svoje plave košulje. Tamo je bio novac koji je još

u zrakoplovu pripremio za plaćanje vožnje taksijem. Izvadio je dvije novčanice od dvadeset dolara i ležerno ih pružio vozačici, dodajući – Trideset i šest. –

Norma Jean je mahnula glavom. – Puno hvala – odgovorila je i prihvatila novac. Potom je posegnula rukom ispod svoga sjedala i izvadila iz toga trezora malu, metalnu kutiju. Pažljivo ju je otvorila i izvadila iz nje dva dolara. Pružila ih je Dinu sa slatkim osmijehom na licu.

On je s uzdahom uzeo dvije novčanice iz njezine ruke. Potom je uputio Normi Jeane upitan pogled, nakrivivši glavu kao sumnjičava ptica. Norma Jeane mu je trebala izvratiti četiri dolara, a ne dva.

Čitajući njegove misli, ona je malo proširila svoj osmijeh. – Dva dolara za brošuru. –

Dino se namrštio, iznenada osjećajući kako mu se počinje lagano vrtjeti u glavi. Trepnuo je nekoliko puta i okrenuo glavu lijevo pa desno ne bi li zaustavio širenje ljutnje i negativne energije u svojim umornim mislima i tijelu. Da, vozačica taksija ga je lukavo izvozala, pomislio je. I eto, sada mu je uzela dva dolara za stvar, jednu pišljivu brošuru, koju on, u drugačijim okolnostima, ne bi uzeo ni da je besplatna. Naravno, njemu nisu bila važna dva dolara. Bila mu je važna vlast nad svojim vlastitim odlukama i postupcima. Dino je htio to jasno reći vozačici taksija.

Ali pospani Veljko, nesvijestan iznenadne napetosti između Dina i vozačice, promuklo je zapitao – Onda, oćemo li? –

Dino je istodobno progutao slinu i namjeru da se porječka s uvijek nasmiješenom taksisticom. Umjesto toga je podignuo obrve i uzvratio joj kiseli osmijeh, dajući joj tako do znanja da je prozreo njezinu igru već na samome početku vožnje i da ga prema tome ona nije nadmudrila prodajući mu svoju izmišljenu biografiju. Onda je teatralno strpao dva dolara u džep na košulji.

– Ajmo – uznastojao je bunovni Veljko.

Dino je samo potvrdno klimnuo glavom, brišući svoj osmijeh s lica.

Veljko je podignuo obrve i duboko udahnuo klimatizirani zrak.

Vozačica taksija nije se međutim prestala smiješiti. Štoviše, ponovo je zaskočila Dina svojom tvrdoglavom raspoloženošću.

– Gospodine, nadam se da će te se lijepo provesti u Los Angelesu. –

Dino je s ironijom u glasu prozborio kroz stisnute zube – Miss Leone Monroe, ili kako se veċ zovete, vi ste vrlo promuċurna poslovna žena. –

– Trudim se – vozačica taksija je koketno odvratila, snimajući svojim samosvijesnim pogledom Dinov napor da ostane pribran. Potom je izašla iz auta i krenula prema prtljažniku.

Dino je nekoliko puta duboko udahnuo i izdahnuo, želeći tom inače olakšavajućom vježbom istresti ljutnju iz svojih misli i tijela. Međutim, ostaci Normina cvjetnoga mirisa parfema zaškakljali su mu hrapavo grlo. Nakašljao se.

Onda su on i Veljko isto izašli iz taksija i pošli prema prtljažniku kraj kojega je stajala još uvijek nasmiješena Norma Jeane. I dok su njih dvojica vadila iz prtljažnika svoje stvari, ona im je ljubazno rekla

– Gospodo, ako budete željeli razgledati grad ili se odvesti nekamo, slobodno mi se javite. Moj e-mail i telefonski broj su napisani u brošuri. –

Začuđen količinom njezine profesionalne drskosti, Dino je odgovorio sa čujnom ironijom u glasu – Hvala, vrlo ste ljubazni, No, najprije moram pročitati vašu cijenjenu autobiografiju. A onda ćemo vidjeti kuda ćemo i kako ċemo. –

Veljko ga je zbunjeno pogledao i dremovno zapitao – Jesan li šta propustija dok san spava? –

Dino je samo niječno odmahnuo glavom.

Norma Jeane Leone Monroe se ponovo nasmiješila, zabacivši kosu unatrag. Zatim se okrenula i izazovno njišući bokovima pošla natrag prema vratima svoga taksija. Polako je sjela za volan i ovlašno mahnula rukom dvojici muškaraca.

Dino i Veljko su zurili u nju, držeći u rukama svoje putne kovčege i torbe kao izgladnjeli školarci.

Noćna svjetla Los Angelesa ubrzo su upila u svoju žednu kožu i Normu Jeane Leone Monroe i njezin taksi.

Dinov i Veljkov mali apartman je bio na prvome katu hotela. Čim su ušli u zagušljivi dnevni boravak, Dino je duboko i zahvalno udahnuo ustajali zrak. Njegova vrtoglavica je odmah nestala. Ljutnja i misli ma Normu Jeane su mu ishlapile iz glave čim su on i Veljko istovremeno spustili svoje putne kovčege na pod pokraj karirana kauča koji je razdvajao dnevni boravak i čajnu kuhinju. Potom su se obojica svalila na tu tvrdu, trosjednu granicu, vadeći iz svojih crnih torba mobitele. Brzo su poslali poruke svojim ženama da su sretno stigli i da će im se ponovo javiti sutradan.

I onda, kao u dobro uvježbanu komadu, Veljko i Dino su se digli s kauča, zgrabili svoje stvari i proslijedili u poveću spavaću sobu. Tamo ih je čekala divovska bračna postelja. S njezine obje strane su bili smeđi, noćni ormarići. Na svakoj od njihovih lakiranih površina stajala je zdepasta svjetiljka pokraj koje su bili električni sat i bijeli telefon. Preko puta kreveta je bio ormar s redovima ladica i televizorom utisnutima u kvadratnu šupljinu, u samome srcu ormara. S njegove desne strane je bio mali, okrugli stolić s tri tapecirane stolice. S lijeve strane je stajao pisaći stol s brošurama-vodičima za razgled Hollywooda i Los Angelesa.

U tišini su Dino i Veljko izvadili laptope iz svojih torba i stavili ih na pisaći stol. Prije nego što su započeli slijedeću simultanu radnju, Dino je brzo izvadio iz džepa hlača smotanu brošuru koju mu je prodala Norma Jeane Leone Monroe i položio je pokraj svoga laptopa. Potom su obojica muškaraca izvadila iz kovčega tamno plava odijela i stavila ih na drvene vješalice u ormaru. Slijedilo je vađenje kozmetičkih torbica, čistih bokserica i bijelih majica za spavanje. Sve su te paralelne radnje dvojica poslovnih partnera i prijatelja radila u tišini. Kao u nijemome filmu. Činilo se kao su uvježbavali neku akciju čiji uspjeh je ovisio o brzini i rasporedu kojim su izvršavali te banalne radnje.

– Oli je sastanak s O’Haron sutra ujutro u devet ili deset? – Veljko je konačno prekinuo tišinu.

– Devet – odvratio je Dino, ne svrćući pogled s bijele majice koju je držao u ruci. – Oli ćemo tamo dobit nešto za ist il ćemo prije devet nešto tu prigrist? –

– A vidit ćemo – ponovo je odgovorio Dino, još uvijek zaokupljen svojom

majicom.

– Okay – Veljko je otpovrnuo, počinjući vježbati svoj engleski.

Zajednička putovanja primoravala su mnoge ljude da rade iste ili slične radnje u isto vrijeme kako bi ostvarili zadatke koje su si zadali ili koje su morali izvršiti u strogo određenu vremenu. Za neke je to bio pravi pakao. Za druge, poput Veljka Linića i Dina Lučića, to je bila mehanička rutina. No, sve stvari ipak nisu uvijek bile tako rutinski jednostavne.

Veljko je prvi otišao u kupaonicu i istuširao se za pet minuta. Malo čiliji se vratio natrag u sobu, natežući usku, bijelu majicu preko pasice plavih, pamučnih bokserica. Njegovo mišićavo tijelo je još uvijek pokazivalo snagu bivšega veslača. Legao je na lijevu stranu postelje, bliže prozoru, i zijevnuo.

– Umoran san ka pas. –

– A e. I ja san – Dino je odvratio i isto otišao u kupaonicu. Četrdesetak minuta vožnje kroz zakrčeni Los Angeles i prepredena taksistica koja mu je uspjela prodati svoju jeftinu, životnu priču za dva dolara umorili su ga više od prekooceanskoga leta.

Kada se osvježeni Dino konačno vratio iz kupaonice u sobu, Veljko je već duboko spavao. Puhao je glasno kao parobrod.

Dino je potom legao na desnu stranu postelje i ugasio svjetiljku na noćnome ormariću pokraj svoga uzglavlja. Minutu je zurio u strop, zaklapao, pa otklapao oči. Ali san ga je spretno izbjegavao. Onda je Veljkovo ritmično puhanje počelo polako nervirati Dina. Ta nadolazeća nervoza podsjetila ga je da je prije leta u Frankfurt zaboravio popiti tabletu melatonina. Melatonin bi mu promijenio moždani i tjelesni bioritam. Devet sati vremenske razlikike rastopilo bi se u minuti. Kako je samo mogao zaboraviti melatonin? Ali bolje da sada ne misli na to. Svako uzrujavanje samo škodi padanju u san. A da možda da uključi televizor? Vijesti su najbolji uspavljivači. Doduše, američke vijesti su drugačije od domaćih. U njima se uvijek nešto događa, mozgao je nemirni Dino.

Konačno, nakon dvadesetak minuta raspravljanja sa samim sobom, Dino je zaključio da se mora potpuno opustiti i ne misliti na ništa. Ali kao za inat, odjednom su mu počele brzati kroz glavu mentalne slike s putovanja. Među njima su se u ritmičnim intervalima pojavljivali profil, vrat i ramena Norme Jeane Leone Monroe. Onda su njezino našminkano lice, zavodnički osmijeh, duboki dekolte i miris njezina parfema potpuno zarobili Dinove mentalne i senzualne sfere. I prije nego što je počeo tonuti u prisiljene fantazije, otvorio je oči i uspravio leđa. Progutao je slinu. Grlo ga je jako boljelo. Razdražen, upalio je svjetiljku. Prokleta Norma Jeane Leone Monroe. Ta prevarantica je bila zadnja osoba na svijetu na koju je sada želio misliti. Ali nije mogao prestati misliti na nju.

Dino je pogledao na električni sat pokraj svjetiljke. Bilo je jedanaest sati i devet minuta. U Splitu je već bilo jutro slijedećega dana: osam sati i devet minuta. U to vrijeme on je obično u kuhinji na brzinu ispijao zadnji gutljaj kave koji mu je skuhala njegova Karmela.

Karmela? Morao bi sada misliti na nju, Dino se dosjetio. Njezina mirnoċa bi ga sigurno uspavala. Ali ne bi smio misliti na kavu. Njezin miris ga je budio čak i u snu.

Uzdahnuvši, pogledao je zaspala Veljka na drugoj strani postelje.

Ovaj je telepatski čitao Dinove uskomešane misli, promrmljavši gotovo nerazumljivo – Meni jednu duplu. –

Dino ga je začuđeno pogledao.

Veljko je samo mljacnuo jezikom.

Dinu se sada razgovaralo. – Ej Veljo, spavaš ka da te ujla CeCe muva. –

– Ma cili roj – Veljko je promumljao i okrenuo se na lijevi bok.

Dino je uzdahnuo i pogledom preletio preko sobe. Pogled mu se zaustavio na pisaćemu stolu na kojemu je, između ostalih stvari, ležala i smotana brošura Norme Jeane Leone Monroe. Boreći se nekoliko sekundi s impulsom da se digne i uzme brošuru, i razumom koji mu je savjetovao da ponovo legne i pokuša zaspati, uzdrmali su Dina još malo više. Pobijedio je impuls. Dino se dignuo iz kreveta i u dva duga koraka dosegnuo stol. Zgrabio je s njega smotanu brošuru i vratio se natrag u postelju. Nestrpljivo je izravnao smotak, gledajući kako mu ispod prstiju izranja naslov napisan plavim slovima: MARILYN MONROE, MOJA MAJKA. Ispod naslova je pisalo sitnijim slovima: Autobiografija Norme Jeane Leone Monroe.

Na sredini naslovnice su bile jedna pokraj druge dvije fotografije platinaste Merlinke. Na jednoj je bila odjevena u dvodijelni bijeli, kupaći kostim, a na drugoj u jednodijelni, crveni. Na objema fotografijama se mazno smiješila onome tko ju je gledao. Međutim, sekundu nakon što je pogledom obuhvatio obje fotografije, Dino je uočio da je Merlinka na desnoj strani bila niža i popunjenja, a ona na lijevoj strani viša i tanja.

Duboko je uzdahnuo i počeškao se po golom koljenu. Jedna od tih Merlinki je znači bila prava, a druga, tko zna? Lažna ili također prava? mozgao je Dino dok mu je pohlepni pogled klizao između lijeve pa desne Merlinke, konačno se zaustavljajući na sočnim, napućenim usnama one na desnoj strani naslovnice brošure.

I dok se sada Dinov kažiprst polako dizao u zrak u namjeri da se spusti na te čvrste, poluotvorene, papirnate usne, njegova svrdlajuća analitičnost i njegov podsvijesni strah od mnogo toga su se ponovo probudili, gurajući u stranu njegove normalne, seksualne porive.

Dino je opet bolno progutao slinu i ponovo bacio pogled na fotografiju Merlinke na lijevoj strani naslovnice brošure. Lice joj je bilo identično licu s desne strane. Ali onda opet, tijelo ove na lijevoj strani je bilo tanje i izduženije. Analitični i nepokolebljivi Dino je zaključio da je i to mogla također biti fotografija prave Merlinke čiju je figuru neki vješti fotograf samo retuširao kako bi samozvana glumičina kćer, Norma Jeane Leone Monroe, mogla tvrditi da je to ona.

Sve te Dinove kombinacije o izgledu Marilyn Monroe, identitetu vozačice taksija i napokon, njegovim vlastitim, potisnutim žudnjama, razdraživale su ga sve više i više.

A na drugoj strani postelje je Veljko sada glasno hrkao i s vremena ne vrijeme mljackao ustima.

Da bi nekako premostio kaotičnu zamku bdijenja u koju je upao, Dino je još jednom izravnao brošuru i onda je rasklopio. Na desnoj stranici je bila crno-bijela fotografija rodnoga lista Norme Jeane Leone Monroe, a na lijevoj tekst s naslovom Moje zlatne ljubavi. Dino se počešao po bradi i počeo čitati.

MOJE ZLATNE LJUBAVI

Goldie, Zlatna retrieverica, je bila je moja prva ljubav. Marilyn Monroe, Zlatna boginja i moja biološka majka bila je, i još uvijek jest, moja druga ljubav. Zlatousta Estella Dalixia Martin Gomez Velasquez, moja prva djevojka, bila je moja treća ljubav. Moje ostale ljubavi su bile srebrne, brončane i željezne. Neke od tih željeznih ljubavi ostavile su mi ožiljke na nekim dijelovima tijela. (No kasnije o tome.)

Dva važna mjesta na šahovskj ploči moga života zauzimaju moji adoptivni roditelji Marietta i Pietro. Oni su bili moji dobri anđeli. Pogotovo moja mama, lijepo uređena domaćica sa skromnim smislom za dokolicu. Popodne, poslije ručka, obično je voljela pušiti cigaretu za cigaretom, razgovarati na telefon sa svojom sestrom Paolom, laštiti krpom namočenom u ocat svoje zlatne narukvice, broševe i lančiće, i snatriti da ću ja prije ili kasnije postati Netko. Mama nikada nije precizirala tko bi taj Netko mogao biti. (Ruku na srce, moji talenti su bili vrlo skučeni. Ali bila sam lijepa. Tako su mi barem govorili.)

Moj tata Pietro i njegova braća Gino i Domenico Leone, su bili vlasnici maloga restorana Catania u južnome Los Angelesu. Tamo su sva trojica više manje provodila dane i noći. Noću su obično kartali s općinskim glavonjama, pijuckali whiskey, očijukali s konobaricama (i više od toga) i strpljivo čekali da im se kojim čudom pridruže za kartaškim stolom Frank Sinatra i Dean Martin.

Mama je često ljutito prigovarala tati da je oženjen za Cataniu, a ne za nju.

Obitelji i s mamine i s tatine strane bile su rodom sa Sicilije. É vero. Naše obiteljske proslave izgledale su kao željeznička stanica. Svi su se grlili i ljubili u obraze kao da će slijedeće minute uskočiti u vlak koji će ih odvesti u nepoznato. Čak su i izrazi na licima tih mojih rođaka odavali koliko su bili privrženi jedni drugima. Ali ta međusobna privrženost je bila čvrsto ograđena svakovrsnim zahtjevima, savjetima i uvjetima. I pljeskanjem po obrazima, popraćeno kratkim, zapovijednim “E”.

Ali Goldie, moja zlatna retriverica. Ona je bila ta koja mi je pokazala da ljubav ne postavlja nikakve uvjete. Ta njezina bestežna odanost pokazala se učinkovitom i na slijedećem primjeru. Tjedan dana nakon što smo doveli Goldie u našu kuću, njezini odani pogledi i zaštitničko ponašanje potakli su moju mamu Mariettu da mi otkrije tajnu koju je, kako sam saznala kasnije, dijelila jedino s tatom i tetom Paolom: da sam i ja, baš kao i Goldie, bila usvojena. Ta me je vijest jako obradovala. Htjela sam u svemu biti kao moja voljena retrieverica.

Sudbina me poslala k njoj. To se zbilo ovako.

Nekoliko dana prije moga šestoga rođendana (rođena sam 3. kolovoza 1962.), rekla sam mami da želim psa za rođendan. Tata nije volio pse. Mama mi je međutim čvrsto obećala da će mi kupiti psa samo ako obećam da ću se sama brinuti za njega.

Ništa lakšega nego se brinuti za nekoga koga voliš.

Te smo subote nas troje otišli u Sklonište za napuštene životinje. Sklonište je bilo u prizemlju jedne ružičaste, dvokatne zgrade u Melrose aveniji u zapadnome Hollywoodu. Kada smo ušli u veliku prostoriju zakrčenu željeznim boksovima, zapuhnuli su nas oštri mirisi životinja i slatkasti parfem žene koja je tamo radila. Žena je stajala iza pohabanoga stola nekoliko koraka udaljena od ulaznih vrata. Na sredini stola je ležao sivi, pisaći stroj okružen čašama s raznobojnim kemijskim olovkama i vrećicama s bombonima. Žena je bila mlada. Imala je dugu, ljubičastu kosu natapiranu na dva kata. Izgledala je kao mješanka između jorgovana i psa Pekingesera. Sviđalo mi se njezino milo lice.

Nakon što nas je srdačno pozdravila, gospođica Jorgeser je napustila svoj stol i prišla nam lomeći duge prste. Sa smiješkom je rekla da svaki pas i svaka mačka u skloništu koštaju dva dolara. Novac od prodaje išao je u Fond za zaštitu životinja.

Moja mama je samo potvrdno klimnula glavom. Tata je nešto promrmljao sebi u bradu. Bojala sam se da će reći da su dva dolara previše novca za kupnju samo jednoga psa. Umjesto toga je šmrknuo kao pas i nestrpljivo pogledao ustranu. Njemu se uvijek žurilo, naročito kada su žene govorile.

Sklonište je imalo oko dvjestotinjak pasa i stotinjak mačaka. Sirotani, stajali su ili sjedili u boksovima s rešetkama, čekajući da netko zastane ispred njih i nasmiješi im se. U tome je smiješku započinjala svaka, pa i najkraća ljubav.

Gospođica Jorgeser nas je polako vodila od boksa do boksa. Oči svih pasa i mačaka iza rešetaka bile su tužne. Njihovi pogledi su i mene rastuživali. Međutim, kada sam na kraju prostorije ugledala Goldie, zlatnu retrievericu, veselo sam poskočila i pljesnula rukama. Njezina zlatasta dlaka sličila je na moju kosu. Širom otvorene oči su joj bile pune nade. Čim su nam se pogledi ukrižili, znale smo da pripadamo jedna drugoj. Da sam imala rep, i ja bih bila veselo mahnula njime, odajući tako moju radost zbog susreta koji je duboko utjecao na moju sposobnost da u nadolazećim godinama naučim kako voljeti nekoga i kako preživjeti odlazak onih koji su me napustili.

Kada je tata konačno dao gospođici Jorgeser dva dolara za Goldie, gospođica me značajno pogledala. Ispjegane, zelene oči su joj nekoliko sekundi skakale između moje plave, kovrčave kose, plavih očiju i maloga madeža usidrenog iznad moje gornje usne na lijevoj strani obraza. Potom je zatreptala gospođica Jorgeser prenijela svoj brzometni pogled na mamu i tatu, procjenjujući točan ton crnine njihove kose i očiju.

Konačno, nakon što nas se nagledala, gospođica Jorgeser je slatkim glasom rekla mojoj mami da neobično sličim glumici Marilyn Monroe. Nadala sam se da će gospođica reći da sličim Goldiei. Mama je brzo skupila tamne obrve u jednu oštru liniju i procijedila da je i ona bila blonda kada je bila mala.

Tamo, u Skloništu za napuštene životinje, prvi put sam čula ime Marilyn Monroe. U slijedećih nekoliko godina čula sam još puno puta od različitih ljudi primjedbu da neobično sličim toj Marilyn Monroe. Ali sve do jedanaeste godine, kada je moja sirota mama Marietta oboljela od leukemije, nije me previše zanimala ta Marilyin Monroe. Vidjela sam njezine fotografije u novinama, na televiziji i na zidu u tatinom restoranu. No, nisam im obraćala previše pažnje. Jedino što mi se sviđalo na glumičinu licu su bile duge umjetne trepavice koje su bacale sjene na vanjske strane njezinih jagodica. Mislila sam kako ću i ja jednoga dana nositi umjetne trepavice. Njihova dužina i gustoća davale su očima dubinu. (Mora da sam taj zaključak čula od moje tete Paole. Ona je isto nosila umjetne trepavice.)

Nekoliko tjedana prije nego što je moja iznemogla mama umrla, rekla mi je da izvadim iz donje ladice staroga ormara u dnevnom boravku moj rodni list. Taj je list ujedno bio i dokument o mojemu usvajanju. Mamina smrt je bila prvo najžalosnije iskustvo u mome životu.

Tata se nakon njezine smrti nakratko uvukao u sebe, a potom u zagrljaj darežljive konobarice Jenny. Goldie je preuzela ulogu moje mame. Nutkala me svojim zaštitničkim pogledom da jedem kada mi se nije jelo. Da pišem domaće zadaće kada mi se to nije dalo. Da zaspem prilijepljena uz nju kada bih se nečega uplašila.

Jednoga popodneva nas dvije smo konačno pročitale moj rodni list. U njemu su bili zapisani slijedeći podaci:

1. Mjesto rođenja: Los Angeles

2. Majčino prebivalište: Nepoznato

3. Ime bolnice ili institucije u kojoj je dijete rođeno: Nepoznato

4. Ime djeteta: Norma Jeane

5. Prezime djeteta: Nepoznato

6. Spol: Žensko

7. Broj djece u ovom porođaju: Vjerojatno jedno

8. Datum rođenja djeteta: Petak, 3. kolovoza 1962.

9. Otac djeteta: Nepoznat

10. Rasa djeteta: Bijela

11. Liječnik ili primalja koja je vodila porod: Nepoznata

12. Mjesto upisa djeteta : Los Angeles, Ministarstvo za zdravlje

13. Usvajatelji djeteta: Marietta i Pietro Leone

14. Datum usvajanja: 7. srpnja 1963.

15. Adresa usvajatelja: 616 S. Olive Street, Los Angeles, CA 90014

TKO SAM JA?

U nedjelju 5. kolovoza 1974., dva dana nakon moga dvanaestoga rođendana, slučajno sam čula u nekoj televizijskoj emisiji da je na taj dan prije dvanaest godina umrla glumica Marilyn Monroe. Dok je spikerica s debelo namazanim usnama i očima govorila da je mrtvu glumicu našla njezina spremačica u spavaćoj sobi, na televizijskom ekranu je još uvijek živa Marilyn pjevala američkome predsjedniku pjesmu Happy Birthday to You. Bila je odjevena u usku, dekoltiranu haljinu boje kože. Haljina joj je bila pripijena uz vlastitu kožu kao mokra rukavica. Glumičini poluspušteni kapci su bili ukrašeni dugim, umjetnim trepavicama. Njihove tanke sjene su joj podrhtavale na porculanskim obrazima.

Televizijska spikerica je potom nastavila govoriti u dramatičnome tonu, rekavši između ostaloga da je uzrok smrti M.M. bilo predoziranje tabletama za spavanje. Potom je spikerica naglasila da neki prijatelji Marilyn Monroe međutim nisu vjerovali u tu službenu tvrdnju. Štoviše, tvrdili su da je glumica bila u devetom mjesecu trudnoće i da je ubijena po nalogu oca njezina djeteta koji je u to vrijeme bio najpopularniji predsjednik na svijetu. Uhvativši dah, spikerica je na kraju dodala da ta skandalozna i kontroverzna tvrdnja nije imala nikakvih materijalnih dokaza.

Ali meni se ta tvrdnja urezala u pamćenje i nekoliko godina kasnije dala mi je misliti.

Pročitajte nastavak ovoga poglavlja na: Facebook Norma Jean Leone Monroe

Najljepša hvala

Dino je duboko udahnuo ustajali, sobni zrak. Štivo koje je upravo pročitao zvučalo mu je kao plastična, holivudska priča koja će, neumoljivo je pretpostavljao, imati “inspirativan kraj”. Takve priče su se svagdje na svijetu dobro prodavale. Ljudi su voljeli tužne priče koje su sretno završavale. Zalazak sunca i njegov ponovni izlazak svakoga je jutra zaustavljao dah onima koji su ustajali u zoru, cinično je umovao Dino.

I sám sada duboko uzdišuċi, ali zbog različitih razloga, Dino je ponovo pogledao na električni sat na noćnome ormariću. Bilo je jedanaest i trideset. Premoren, široko je rastegnuo ruke kao da se želi osloboditi željeznoga prisustva Norme Jeane Leone Monroe. Brošura mu je pala iz olabavljenih prstiju na pod. Zatvorio je oči. Ali na njegovo zaprepaštenje, u misli mu je zapovijedno zakoračila treća ljubav Norme Jeane; tajanstvena, zlatousta Estella Dalixia Martin Gomez Velasquez.

I dok je omamljeni Dino ponovo počeo bolno gutati slinu, istovremeno mjerkajući na svojoj mentalnoj slici golo, brončano tijelo Estelle Dalixie, glas usnula Veljka se zavaljao kao spori, plimni val kroz utihlu sobu.

– Dvi najvažnije stvari u gradnji broda: sigurnost i ravnoteža. E. –

Zanzibar: an excerpt

heather — Sun, 20 Jul 2014 22:52:24 +0000

Thibault de Montaigu
translated by Lara Vergnaud

Some people will no doubt feel this work lacks precision and that it’s impossible to write a decent book about a criminal investigation while remaining comfortably settled at home sipping a Diet Coke as you watch rain fall outside the window. It so happens that I’ve always worked like this, preferring to take a back seat for the benefit of my readers. I find the telephone more than sufficient and only venture out of my house to interview the main protagonists of my stories. Except, in this specific case, there aren’t any. Klein and Vasconcelos have been dead for a long time and I don’t have any other choice but to rely on the copious documentation about them that’s been provided me. Someone will object that I didn’t gather this documentation and that I can’t consider it to be absolutely reliable. I will simply respond that I am not a journalist and that my sole concern is to fulfill an assignment, given by my editor. The text in itself doesn’t belong to me.

Certain facts, on the other hand, remain indisputable: Klein and Vasconcelos began their careers as fake reporters just after their eventful departure from the Grand Hotel Europe. A surprising career change to say the least, but one that would prove to be extremely profitable judging by the sudden rise in their standards of living. The two men very quickly embarked on one trip after the other around the world while the balances in their bank accounts remained inexplicably stable: +89.07 euros for Klein and -11,850.66 euros for Vasconcelos before they were definitively closed by the appropriate authorities.

Their last names alone sufficed to get them invited anywhere. An email or a phone call and the matter was settled. Nobody was thinking about asking questions yet. Little wonder: Klein and Vasconcelos passed for good guys in the profession. Eccentric perhaps, wild without a doubt, but good guys that no one could have ever imagined would one day become a sort of failed crook or third rate gangster whose photo appears on the afternoon I-Télé broadcast between a piece on Palestine and another on the new Tour de France route.

In the beginning, the two accomplices settled for latching onto group press junkets: the tourism office in Saint Lucia, fashion week in Tunis, Les Voiles de Saint Barth, the coopérative du jambon de Parme, the La Mamounia Literary Award, the Baros hotel in the Maldives, the Fiat 500 Gucci in Florence… It wasn’t the invitations that were lacking. They received new ones every day. The sole requirement: give the name of the magazine they were meant to represent. Klein and Vasconcelos’ only problem was choosing. They could claim to be affiliated with this or that newspaper with which they were used to collaborating, be creative by alluding to a possible international publication, even invent a magazine that nobody knew but wouldn’t dare question for fear of being taken for an idiot. Worse: certain press agents would congratulate themselves on thus extending their media coverage while others, paid by the page, sensed the possibility of making more money, counting on a lengthy report that the leading magazines, which never had any room, couldn’t guarantee them.

This was how Klein and Vasconcelos, in the following months, actively contributed to publications as varied as Paris Match, Elle, L’Optimum, Le Figaro Madame, but also utterly unknown magazines like Distant Horizons, the Professional Tourist, or even Sea Sex and Sun Magazine without leaving a single trace to be found today. Some people like Zivonjic spoke in this regard of “authors without works” or rather “works pending authors,” asserting even that Klein and Vasconcelos’ artistic corpus, composed primarily of promised reports, imagined articles and photographs to be taken, is one of the most important of the 21^st century. As for Alain Bernard, he violently protested against this opinion during a radio interview: That’s a perfectly ridiculous idea! Zivonjic is only parroting that old hoax invented by conceptual artists according to which the intention makes the work. But deep down that means nothing. It’s an excuse for the lazy and the incompetent who mistake their dreams for reality. The truth is that young people today don’t want to do anything anymore. They’re soft! Good-for-nothings!

Unfortunately Klein and Vasconcelos were never able to give their opinion on the subject since at the same instant one of them could be found in an encrusted porcelain funeral urn on the coffee table in his mother’s living room and the other was lying six feet under in a grave in a Christian cemetery in Zanzibar with as his only company red-crested monkeys that came from the nearby forest to nibble on flowers placed against crosses and to fornicate on the tombs. Were they aware of the esthetic impact of their acts? Was their aim ever to launch an artistic movement or carry out a kind of long-term performance? So many questions that we will never be able to answer.

Klein and Vasconcelos soon stopped gatecrashing these kinds of trips, preferring to choose their destinations and organize their own itineraries by talking to the press offices beforehand. Even if this work required more effort in order to convince their audiences – airline companies, hotels, tour operators, tourism offices – they undertook it successfully, aided by their notoriety, and very quickly begin to roam the planet as a team without having to put up with the endless press agents who coddled them like nannies or the other journalists, for the most part freeloaders capable of discussing their union problems or latest stomach bug on an atoll lost in the middle of the Celebes sea.

Today we know that the decision came from Vasconcelos, whose asocial character was ill-adapted to group trips. If Klein, by nature rather curious and likeable, sometimes made friends with the other participants—as was the case with the woman named Anne S. in Venice—Vasconcelos quite simply ignored them. He would avoid sitting next to them on the bus and pointedly stop talking during meals, hidden behind his Ray Ban Aviators, which he liked to believe made him look like Pablo Escobar or any other sinister Latino gangster whom the rank and file were afraid to address. Sadly there was always somebody asking him his opinion or slipping in a remark in that exasperatingly friendly tone obligatory among groups of coworkers. He would then respond with a joke no one understood or launch into a horrific argument in favor of Franco’s legacy or the reduction of the age of sexual consent to twelve years old, which scandalized those listening and provided him immunity against any future attempts at conversation. Ditto for the excursions. Vasconcelos would stay on the sidelines preferring the silence of a book or a landscape to the chorus of historical-touristy redundancies coming from his colleagues. At the end of the trip, at baggage claim, he was the only one never asked for his cell phone number.

Is that the reason people have such a hard time talking about him, when asked? “Solitary,” “arrogant,” “troubling” are the words that appear the most often in the testimonies at my disposal. “Original,” “mysterious,” “seductive” are also used, generally by young women. Here and there some men might describe him as “crazy,” a “crackpot” or a “genuine asshole” but they remain isolated cases. Cases that would disappear as soon as Klein and Vasconcelos began to operate exclusively as a duo, fashioning their own made to measure trips.

This allergy to others is one of the most distinguishing traits of Vasconcelos’ personality. He didn’t limit himself to showing his animosity, like a mere misanthrope, but preferred, and by far, to remove himself in spirit, that’s to say convince himself that he wasn’t there, with them, but elsewhere, en route to his next destination or lost in the twists and turns of his future masterpiece, who knows? The main thing was to negate his presence. Suppress his being from the world. He didn’t simply give the impression of being absent but, after a while, of disappearing physically, creating a kind of black hole in the mental landscape of those nearest him. So they eventually forgot him despite the paradoxical attraction still exerted by this invisible power to whom they attached, in the way of a legend, a halo of mystery and terror.

The few who were able to penetrate his private life, like Klein or Alban Verhaeghe, succumbed to his charms, experiencing even a besotted fascination with him. But what was so unique about him? Was he really a misunderstood genius as some said after his death? Or was his silent arrogance just a way to evade the vacuity of his existence? An artifice to hide his fear of inhabiting his own life and risk being like everybody else, crippled by vanity and unfounded desires?

Alban Verhaeghe, in his documentary Looking for Vasconcelos, tackles this dark side of his subject. One of the scenes, which I re-watched last night, boils it down perfectly. In it, Verhaeghe describes how Vasconcelos had the habit, when he was a student at the Center for Journalism Studies, of staying alone in the classroom during breaks while his peers spread out noisily through the hallways or around the coffee distributor. In this short sequence, you see the camera advance down a deserted corridor. As background noise, student voices and laughter that seem to come from the hereafter. They gradually dwindle as the camera approaches the classroom then go silent at the exact moment that the director pushes open the door and discovers the room’s interior: white board covered with notes, a carpet of paper scattered across the conference table, in the back chairs piled up like Russian dolls and a silhouette filmed from behind that one guesses belongs to Vasconcelos. Then, amidst the silence, Verhaeghe’s voice interjects again, resuming the thread of his narration: “It’s coming back to me, that November afternoon when I went back to the classroom by chance and surprised Vasconcelos, alone as was his wont, lost in his thoughts. What was he dreaming about when he shut himself up in there? Was he thinking about the books he would have liked to write? Was he looking back at scenes from his past? Places? Landscapes? Other places or other rooms where, as a child, he liked to daydream, far from the tumult of the world? But on that day Vasconcelos wasn’t plunged in his reveries as I’d imagined. No. His attention was fixated on a sheet of ruled paper whose content he was furiously copying. I quickly recognized the handwriting as belonging to D., one of the best students in our class, whose style and inventiveness were praised by the writing teacher, Hedi Kaddour. What was Vasconcelos doing with it? Did he want to steal D.’s text? Draw inspiration for his own book? And how to explain the fact that he was bent over the paper whereas he openly despised D. and systematically attacked him during Hedi Kaddour’s class? I never knew. I bumped into a chair and Vasconcelos turned around, red with emotion, as if I had surprised him in the middle of masturbating or doing something equally repugnant. But he recovered his composure very quickly and, addressing me as if I was a servant, asked me what I was doing there. And now that I’m back here, years later, I know that his secret has vanished forever. I know that I will never see Vasconcelos again. Try as I might to imagine him, bent over that sheet of paper, blood coloring his face while the hallways echo with whispers of our conversations, try as I might to remember him shaking in his chair like a naive and frightened child, fearful of being discovered, I can’t do it. The illusion is gone. As if Vasconcelos had died a second time.”

To me this scene seems to contain one of the keys to Vasconcelos’ character. As if within him existed a public self – derisive, haughty, self-assured – and another one, private, devoured by anxiety over being recognized and going down in history. Dissatisfied with himself, he felt obligated to rewrite the world and claim the lead role. That of a man whom no one can reach because he’s superior to everyone else. But this outward superiority wasn’t meant to resist the onslaught of reality for very long and Vasconcelos had preferred to invent a fable rather than give up his infantile enjoyment of narcissistic pleasures. It’s in this way that he invented a universe compatible with his desires rather than bending them to the reality of the world.

But what about Klein? Did he suffer from the same problem or did he follow Vasconcelos out of weakness? If Klein was able to be influenced by his partner, to the point that the former’s mother accused the latter of having “bewitched” her son, taking advantage of his “kindness” and his “fragility” to “drag him into this mess,” as she stated during an interview with the Daily News of Zanzibar, Klein was far from a puppet with whom Vasconcelos amused himself by pulling the strings. Let’s remember that he was nearly forty years old at the time of the events, and couldn’t be unaware of what he was involved in. The zeal he applied to charming press agents and the enthusiasm he showed once on site, cozying up to the hotel staff or showing an interest in the country’s history, proved that he was enjoying it even. As for Vasconcelos, if he cut an impressive figure thanks to his charisma, he didn’t have the status of a guru or a mafia boss either, despite the sartorial efforts he made to appear so. What’s most likely is that they both got swept up in the game without realizing it and when their faces appeared for the first time on the afternoon I-Télé broadcast, it was already too late to turn back.

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READ THIS IN FRENCH

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Image: Walter Andrade, from the series “The Ruin of Others” (magazines erased by hand).

Zanzibar: un fragment

heather — Sun, 20 Jul 2014 22:50:20 +0000

Thibault de Montaigu

Certains sans doute estimeront que cet ouvrage manque de rigueur et qu’on ne peut décemment rédiger une enquête criminelle en restant confortablement installé chez soi à siroter des Coca Light tout en observant la pluie tomber sur le paysage. Il se trouve que j’ai toujours opéré ainsi, préférant m’effacer au profit de ceux pour lesquels j’écrivais les livres. Le téléphone me suffit amplement et je ne m’aventure en dehors de chez moi que pour interviewer les protagonistes principaux de mes histoires. Hors, dans ce cas précis, il n’y en a même pas. Klein et Vasconcelos sont morts depuis longtemps et je n’ai d’autre choix que de m’appuyer sur l’épaisse documentation qui m’a été fournie à leur sujet. On m’objectera que cette documentation n’a pas été rassemblée par mes soins et que je ne peux la considérer comme absolument fiable. Je répondrai simplement que je ne fais pas profession de journaliste et que mon unique souci est de répondre à une commande, celle de mon éditeur. Le texte en lui-même ne m’appartient pas.

Certains faits en revanche demeurent incontestables : Klein et Vasconcelos débutèrent dans la carrière de faux reporters juste après leur départ mouvementé du Grand Hôtel Europe. Une reconversion professionnelle pour le moins étonnante mais qui s’avéra extrêmement profitable si l’on en juge par l’élévation soudaine de leur niveau de vie. Très vite, les deux hommes enchaînèrent les voyages de par le monde tandis que les soldes de leurs comptes en banque demeuraient inexplicablement stables : + 89,O7 euros pour Klein et – 11.850,66 euros pour Vasconcelos avant qu’ils ne soient définitivement clôturés par les autorités compétentes.

Leurs seuls noms suffisaient à les faire inviter n’importe où. Un mail ou un coup de fil et l’affaire était réglée. Personne ne songeait encore à poser de questions. Et pour cause : Klein et Vasconcelos passaient dans la profession pour de bons garçons. Excentriques peut-être, sauvages sans aucun doute, mais de bons garçons dont on n’aurait jamais pu imaginer qu’un jour ils deviennent des espèces de truands ratés ou de gangsters de bas étage dont les photos apparaîtraient au journal de midi d’I-Télé entre un sujet sur la Palestine et un autre sur le tracé du nouveau Tour de France.

Dans les premiers temps, les deux complices se contentèrent de se greffer à des voyages de presse groupés : l’office du tourisme de Sainte Lucie, la fashion week de Tunis, les Voiles de Saint Barth, la coopérative du jambon de Parme, le prix littéraire de la Mamounia, l’hôtel Baros aux Maldives, la Fiat 500 Gucci à Florence… Ce n’était pas les invitations qui manquaient. Ils en recevaient chaque jour de nouvelles. Seul impératif : donner le nom du magazine qu’ils étaient censés représenter. Klein et Vasconcelos avaient l’embarras du choix. Ils pouvaient se réclamer de tel ou tel journal avec lequel ils avaient l’habitude de collaborer, innover en évoquant une possible publication à l’étranger, voire inventer un titre que personne ne connaîtrait mais dont nul n’oserait mettre en doute l’existence de peur de passer pour un imbécile. Pire : certaines attachées de presse se féliciteraient d’étendre ainsi leur couverture médias tandis que d’autres, rémunérées à la page, entreverraient la possibilité de gagner davantage, escomptant un reportage fleuve que les magazines phares, qui n’avaient jamais de place, ne pouvaient leur garantir.

C’est ainsi que Klein et Vasconcelos, dans les mois qui suivirent, contribuèrent activement à des publications aussi variées que Paris Match, Elle, L’Optimum, Le Figaro Madame, mais également des titres parfaitement inconnus tels que Horizons Lointains, le Touriste Professionnel ou encore Sea Sex and Sun Magazine sans qu’il n’en reste aucune trace aujourd’hui. Certains comme Zivonjic ont parlé à cet égard d’“auteurs sans oeuvres” ou plutôt d’“oeuvres en attente d’auteurs”, faisant même valoir que le corpus artistique de Klein et Vasconcelos, composé en majorité de reportages promis, d’articles imaginés ou de photographies à réaliser, est l’un des plus importants du XXIème siècle.

Alain Bernard de son côté s’est violemment élevé contre cette opinion lors d’un entretien à la radio : “C’est une idée parfaitement ridicule ! Zivonjic ne fait que reprendre à son compte cette vieille arnaque inventée par l’art conceptuel selon laquelle l’intention ferait l’œuvre. Mais au fond ça ne veut rien dire. C’est une excuse pour les paresseux et les incapables qui prennent leurs rêves pour la réalité. La vérité, c’est que les jeunes gens d’aujourd’hui ne veulent plus rien faire. Ce sont des mous ! Des jean-foutre !”

Klein et Vasconcelos malheureusement ne purent jamais donner leur opinion sur la question étant donné qu’au même instant, l’un se trouvait posé sur la table basse du salon de sa mère dans une belle urne funéraire en porcelaine incrustée et l’autre gisait à un mètre cinquante sous terre dans une tombe du cimetière chrétien de Zanzibar avec pour seule compagnie des singes à crêtes rouges venus de la forêt voisine bouffer les fleurs contre les croix et forniquer sur les sépultures. Avaient-ils conscience de la portée esthétique de leurs actes ? Ont-ils jamais eu pour dessein d’initier un mouvement artistique ou de réaliser une sorte de performance au long cours ? Autant de questions auxquelles nous ne pourrons jamais répondre.

Klein et Vasconcelos cessèrent bientôt de s’incruster à ce type de voyage préférant sélectionner leurs destinations et organiser leurs propres itinéraires en discutant en amont avec les bureaux de presse. Même si ce travail leur demandait davantage d’efforts afin de convaincre leurs interlocuteurs – compagnies aériennes, hôtels, tours opérateurs, offices du tourisme -, ils s’y livrèrent avec succès, aidés par leur notoriété, et commencèrent très vite à sillonner la planète en binôme sans avoir à souffrir les éternelles attachées de presse qui les couvaient comme des nounous ou les autres journalistes, des pique-assiettes pour la plupart capables de disserter de leurs problèmes de syndic ou de leur dernière gastro sur un atoll perdu en pleine mer des Célèbes.

Nous savons aujourd’hui que cette décision est le fait de Vasconcelos dont le caractère asocial s’accommodait assez mal des voyages groupés. S’il arrivait à Klein, d’un naturel plutôt curieux et avenant, de se lier avec les autres participants – comme ce fut le cas avec la dénommée Anne S. à Venise -, Vasconcelos les ignorait tout bonnement. Il évitait de s’asseoir à leurs côtés dans les cars et se taisait ostensiblement à table, retranché derrière ses Ray Ban Aviator dont il se plaisait à croire qu’elle lui donnait l’air de Pablo Escobar ou de n’importe quel autre gangster latino et patibulaire auquel la piétaille tremble de s’adresser. Hélas il y avait toujours quelqu’un pour solliciter son avis ou lui glisser une remarque avec ce ton horripilant de camaraderie auquel obligent les bandes de collègues. Il répondait alors par des blagues que personne ne comprenait ou se lançait dans des plaidoyers épouvantables en faveur de l’héritage de Franco ou de l’abaissement de la majorité sexuelle à douze ans qui scandalisaient l’assistance et la vaccinaient contre toute future tentative de rapprochement. En excursion, idem. Vasconcelos se tenait à l’écart préférant le silence d’un livre ou d’un paysage aux concerts de tautologies historico-touristiques que donnaient ses confrères. A la fin du séjour, devant le tapis des bagages, il était le seul à qui on ne demandait jamais son numéro de portable.

Est-ce la raison pour laquelle les gens ont tant de mal à parler de lui quand on les interroge ? “Solitaire”, “hautain”, “inquiétant” sont les termes qui reviennent le plus souvent dans les témoignages dont je dispose. “Original”, “ténébreux”, “séduisant” sont également cités, généralement par des jeunes femmes. Certains hommes ont pu le qualifier ici ou là de “cinglé”, d’”hurluberlu” ou d’” authentique connard” mais ils demeurent des cas isolés. Des cas qui allaient disparaître à partir du moment où Klein et Vasconcelos se mettraient à fonctionner exclusivement en duo, confectionnant leurs propres séjours sur mesure.

Cette allergie aux autres est un des traits les plus marquants du caractère de Vasconcelos. Celui-ci ne se bornait pas, comme un plat misanthrope, à manifester son animosité à leur égard, il préférait, et de loin, se supprimer en esprit, c’est-à-dire se convaincre qu’il n’était pas là, avec eux, mais ailleurs, en route vers sa prochaine destination ou perdu dans les méandres de son futur chef d’œuvre, qui sait ? L’essentiel était d’annuler sa présence. D’abolir son être au monde. Il ne donnait pas simplement l’impression d’être absent mais, après un certain temps, de disparaître physiquement, créant une sorte de trou noir dans le paysage mental de ses plus proches voisins. Aussi finissait-on par l’oublier malgré l’attraction paradoxale que continuait d’exercer cette puissance invisible à laquelle s’attachait, à la manière des légendes, un halo de mystère et de terreur.

Les rares qui ont peu pénétré sont intimité, comme Klein ou Alban Verhaeghe, sont tombés sous le charme, allant jusqu’à éprouver une fascination amoureuse à son endroit. Mais qu’avait-il de si unique ? Etait-il vraiment ce génie incompris dont certains ont parlé après sa mort ? Ou son arrogance silencieuse n’était qu’une façon d’escamoter la vacuité de son existence ? Un artifice pour cacher la crainte qu’il avait d’habiter sa propre vie et de se risquer à être pareil aux autres, perclus de vanité et de désirs infondés ?

Alban Verhaeghe, dans son documentaire Looking for Vasconcelos, aborde cette face sombre du personnage. Une des scènes, que je me suis repassée hier soir, le résume parfaitement. Verhaeghe y raconte comment Vasconcelos avait l’habitude, lorsqu’il était étudiant au Centre de Formation des Journalistes, de rester seul dans la classe pendant les pauses tandis que ses condisciples se répandaient bruyamment dans les couloirs ou autour de la machine à café. Dans cette courte séquence, on voit la caméra progresser le long d’un corridor désert. En bruit de fond, des rires et des voix d’étudiants qui semblent venir de l’au-delà. Ceux-ci s’amenuisent au fur et à mesure que la caméra se rapproche de la salle puis se taisent tout à fait au moment où le réalisateur pousse la porte et découvre l’intérieur de la pièce : tableau blanc couvert d’annotations, tapis de feuilles jonchant la table de conférence, chaises empilées comme des poupées russes au fond et une silhouette de dos qu’on devine être celle de Vasconcelos. Alors, au milieu de ce silence, la voix de Verhaeghe s’élève à nouveau, reprenant le fil de sa narration : “Il me revient en mémoire cet après-midi de novembre où j’étais retourné par hasard dans la classe et j’y avais surpris Vasconcelos, seul comme à son habitude, perdu dans ses pensées. A quoi rêvait-il lorsqu’il s’enfermait ici ? Songeait-il aux livres qu’il aurait voulu écrire ? Se remémorait-il des scènes de son passé ? Des lieux ? Des paysages ? D’autres lieux ou d’autres salles où, enfant, il aimait à rêvasser, loin du tumulte du monde ? Mais Vasconcelos ce jour-là n’était pas plongé dans ses songes comme je l’imaginais. Non. Son attention était absorbée par une feuille quadrillée dont il recopiait furieusement le contenu. Je reconnus bientôt l’écriture de D., l’un des meilleurs élèves de notre promotion, dont le professeur d’écriture, Hedi Kaddour, louait le style et l’inventivité. Que faisait Vacsoncelos ainsi ? Souhaitait-il voler le texte de D. ? S’en inspirer pour son propre livre ? Et comment expliquer qu’il se trouvait penché sur cette feuille alors qu’il méprisait D. ouvertement et l’attaquait systématiquement dans les cours de Hedi Kaddour ? Je ne le sus jamais. Je heurtai une chaise et Vasconcelos se retourna, violet d’émotion, comme si je l’avais surpris en train de se masturber ou de commettre quelque chose d’infâme. Mais il recouvra très vite son sang-froid et me demanda comme à un domestique ce que je faisais là. Et maintenant que je pénètre ici, des années après, je sais que son secret s’est envolé à jamais. Je sais que je ne reverrai plus Vasconcelos. J’ai beau essayer de l’imaginer, penché au-dessus de cette feuille, le sang colorant son visage tandis que les couloirs résonnent de la rumeur de nos conversations, j’ai beau essayer de me le rappeler tremblant sur sa chaise comme un enfant naïf et apeuré, craignant d’être découvert, je n’y arrive pas. L’illusion a disparu. Comme si Vasconcelos était mort une seconde fois.”

Cette scène me semble recéler une des clés du personnage de Vasconcelos. Comme s’il existait chez lui un être public – moqueur, méprisant, sûr de lui – et un autre intime, dévoré par l’angoisse d’être reconnu et de passer à la postérité. Peu satisfait de sa personne, il se sent obligé de récrire le monde en se donnant le beau rôle. Celui d’un homme qu’on ne peut atteindre car il est supérieur aux autres. Mais cette supériorité de façade ne devait pas résister longtemps aux assauts de la réalité et Vasconcelos avait préféré inventer cette fable plutôt que de renoncer aux plaisirs infantiles de la jouissance narcissique. C’est ainsi qu’il avait inventé un monde qui s’accordait à ses désirs au lieu de les plier à la réalité du monde.

Mais Klein alors ? Souffrait-il du même mal ou avait-t-il suivi Vasconcelos par faiblesse ? Si Klein a pu être influencé par son acolyte, au point où la mère du premier a accusé le second d’avoir “ensorcelé” son fils profitant de sa “gentillesse” et de sa “fragilité” pour “l’entraîner dans cette histoire”, ainsi qu’elle l’a déclaré dans son interview au Daily News de Zanzibar, Klein est loin d’être une marionnette dont Vasconcelos se serait amusé à tirer les fils. Il avait, rappelons-le, près de quarante ans au moment des faits, et ne pouvait ignorer ce dans quoi il s’engageait. Le zèle qu’il mettait à charmer les attachées de presse et l’enthousiasme qu’il montrait une fois sur place, copinant avec le personnel de l’hôtel ou se passionnant pour l’histoire du pays, prouveraient même qu’il y prenait du plaisir. Quant à Vasconcelos, s’il en imposait par son charisme, il ne possédait pas non plus la stature d’un gourou ou d’un parrain de la mafia malgré les efforts vestimentaires qu’il se donnait pour le paraître. Le plus probable est que les deux se soient pris au jeu sans s’en rendre compte et lorsque leurs visages apparurent pour la première fois au journal de midi d’I-Télé, il était déjà beaucoup trop tard pour revenir en arrière.

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RETOURNER

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Image: Walter Andrade

História de amor

heather — Mon, 07 Jul 2014 20:21:40 +0000

Bernardo Carvalho

Antes mesmo de ele completar dez anos, a mãe já o obrigava a acompanhá-la até o cais para negociar o peixe que os homens traziam de manhã. Não é por acaso que o menino acabou tomando tamanha aversão aos negócios e ao comércio. A cena é sempre a mesma. Mãe e filho vêm pela rua empoeirada que margeia o rio, ambos vestindo galabeyas muito simples e calçados de alpercatas. Ela vem coberta de preto da cabeça aos pés, caminha como se passeasse sem rumo num domingo de sol. Ele é tão pequeno e está tão pouco à vontade que, apesar da galabeya encardida, com a bainha esfiapada arrastando pelo chão de terra, mais parece vestido para uma ocasião especial. A mãe apóia o cotovelo sobre a pilastra no alto da balaustrada de um dos lados da escada que leva da rua ao rio e espera, como quem não quer nada, os pescadores que em algum momento vão subir com sacos plásticos na mão. O menino olha ao redor, para a rua e para a cidade. Evita cruzar com o olhar dos turistas que chegam nos barcos e que, por serem estrangeiros, são as únicas testemunhas da sua humilhação. Os locais mal prestam atenção no menino que não quer estar ali, ao lado da mãe, mas tampouco tem escolha. Antes mesmo da morte do pai, quando este já não conseguia se levantar da cama, ele entendeu que não tinha escolha. Os homens não se rebaixam a falar com uma mulher sozinha e é preciso levar comida para casa. Enquanto espera com a mãe no alto da escada, ele sonha com o dia em que vai descer o rio até o Cairo, como o irmão, para nunca mais voltar.

São três os homens que sobem os degraus de pedra, conversando, como se não tivessem percebido a mulher de preto no alto do talude, apoiada sobre uma das pilastras da escada. Cada um traz um pequeno saco plástico na mão. Ela os observa. Ao chegar ao alto da escada, um dos pescadores vai até ela, deposita o saco plástico aos seus pés e se afasta sem lhe dirigir a palavra, sem nem mesmo lhe dirigir um olhar. Vai se juntar aos outros dois, que o aguardam do outro lado da escada, junto à balaustrada oposta, conversando de costas para a mulher, fingindo ignorá-la. A mulher abre o saco, examina os peixes no interior e tenta dizer alguma coisa, de longe. O homem, conversando com os amigos do outro lado, finge que não ouve. É sinal de que a oferta foi baixa. Ela insiste, diz mais alguma coisa, mais alto – que os peixes não prestam, por exemplo –, para justificar a oferta, e afinal ele se dá o trabalho de retrucar com um gesto desagradável. Ameaça pegar o saco de volta e ir embora. É sempre assim. Ela não ousa se aproximar dos homens e, embora isso seja natural segundo os costumes locais, o menino sente a humilhação de estar do lado errado da escada, com a mãe, e não com os homens, por força das circunstâncias. É o olhar dos turistas estrangeiros que o humilha. Não será assim quando crescer e for embora para o Cairo.

Quando a mãe e o pescador chegam afinal a um acordo, é a vez de o menino entrar em cena. Ela lhe dá o dinheiro e o empurra. Ele vai contrariado até a balaustrada oposta, onde estão os homens, e entrega o dinheiro ao pescador. Espera o troco, que não vem de graça. Antes, o pescador desdenha dele, passa a mão na cabeça do menino. E é a mãe quem reage de longe, dizendo alguma coisa que faz o pescador fechar a cara e entregar por fim o troco. O menino volta para a mãe e para casa, com o saco de peixes na mão, enquanto os homens se afastam, contando o dinheiro e rindo.

A cena se repete com ligeiras modificações até o dia em que, aos quinze anos, ele é levado pelo tio para visitar o irmão mais velho, preso no Cairo. É a primeira vez que vai à cidade grande, o que o deixa em êxtase apesar do motivo. Nas visitas anteriores, o tio foi sozinho. Em casa, ninguém fala da prisão do irmão. A mãe chorou durante dois anos e depois parou e nunca mais tocou no assunto. Com a morte do pai, o tio assumiu as decisões do homem da casa. É dono de uma pequena loja de tecidos e os ajuda desde que o sobrinho mais velho foi preso no Cairo e deixou de mandar dinheiro. Agora que o menor fez quinze anos, chegou a hora de também ir visitar o irmão.

A prisão impressiona o menino. Não corresponde à imagem que ele fazia da cidade grande. À sua maneira, a prisão é muito pior do que uma casa núbia, de barro, nas franjas do deserto. O irmão está doente, tem hematomas e cortes espalhados pelo corpo. Os guardas dizem ao tio que os ferimentos são resultado de uma briga entre os presos, faz um mês, e que o sobrinho mais velho teve sorte, escapou por pouco. Falam da morte, mas o menino não entende o que querem dizer, uma vez que o irmão continua preso. Não sabe o que isso tem que ver com a sorte. O irmão mais velho não diz nada, mas, assim que os guardas se distraem, pede ao tio que leve o irmão menor à casa de alguém e lhe diz o endereço. Fala baixo, ao pé do ouvido do tio, de modo que o próprio menino nada ouve.

Quando saem da prisão, o tio o leva até um emaranhado de ruas no centro da cidade e pede que não saia dali, que o espere, sem arredar o pé, no meio do caos dos mascates e do comércio que tanto o horroriza, e que evite as tentações. Diz que não vai demorar. Tem um encontro ali perto. Não diz que encontro é esse nem onde. Quer ver antes o lugar e as pessoas às quais deve entregar o sobrinho para cumprir o desígnio do irmão mais velho.

Enquanto espera, o menino ouve uma música que vem de um prédio e se esquece das recomendações do tio. Aproxima-se, curioso, e percebe uma movimentação estranha no interior do prédio antigo com muxarabiês nas janelas. Entra. No pátio interno, um grupo de homens de branco gira sem parar ao som de uma música hipnotizante. Ele não compreende o que estão fazendo, mas tampouco precisa compreender. Cinco homens giram sem parar, numa cadência frenética, que vai aumentando conforme os quatro músicos escondidos na sombra também se inflamam com seus instrumentos, num ritmo que evolui para uma explosão que nunca chega. O menino permanece com os olhos grudados no círculo de homens, ao som da música hipnotizante. Quer girar também, mas não consegue mover os pés. Não sabe definir que sentimento é esse, é mais do que uma vontade, é uma coisa que ele não poderá deixar de fazer mais cedo ou mais tarde. Terá que girar, como aqueles homens, até cair. Eles giram, em roda e em torno do próprio eixo, como os planetas, aproximando-se de um estado que, embora não conheça, o menino pode imaginar como se já o tivesse experimentado, um estado que esteve desde sempre dentro dele à espera de um modo de se expressar. De repente, a cadência começa a arrefecer e os homens vão parando de girar. É nesse instante que, da forma mais inesperada, um deles pega pela mão o que está a seu lado e o beija na boca, enquanto os outros, embora bem mais lentos do que antes, continuam a girar sobre o próprio eixo, indiferentes ao que acontece ao redor. Estão de olhos fechados, mas o menino mantém os seus bem abertos. É tudo tão rápido que ele já nem sabe o que viu e o que imaginou quando os dois homens se separam e, como se nada tivesse acontecido, retomam o movimento, continuam a girar lentamente ao lado dos outros, de olhos fechados. O menino continua paralisado quando a mão do tio o arranca daquele estado letárgico com um puxão violento no ombro. O tio pergunta ao menino o que ele está fazendo ali, por que não ficou esperando onde tinham combinado. O menino não sabe o que responder, poderia dizer simplesmente que ouviu a música e quis ver o que era – o que seria tão mais simples e verdadeiro –, mas tudo o envergonha, como se tivesse sido pego em flagrante de um crime que não chegou a cometer. Ele não sabe por que está morrendo de vergonha, enquanto o tio grita com ele e o tira dali à força, até perceber que um grupo de turistas estrangeiros o observa com o mesmo olhar de quando ia ao cais negociar o peixe com a mãe.

Quando completou quinze anos, recebeu de presente uma coletânea dos poemas de Kaváfis e nunca mais parou de sonhar com o mar, com os homens e com o Oriente. Queria ver os “belos corpos de mortos que nunca envelheceram”. O mesmo livro que o pai arrancou das mãos do filho no dia em que este lhe dissera que ainda não tinha se decidido entre a história e a arqueologia (mas que certamente não seguiria a carreira familiar, não seria médico como o pai, como os irmãos, como os tios e como os primos), o mesmo livro o pai arremessou contra a parede, meses depois, quando passou por dificuldades financeiras, gritando que só faltava o filho ser veado.

Quando completou dezoito anos, o menino ganhou da mãe uma viagem até Alexandria, para conhecer os lugares onde vivera e amara o homem que, sem nenhum evento exterior, sofreu cataclismos interiores, em silêncio, sozinho, e os expressou num punhado de poemas extraordinários: “Não acharás novas terras, tampouco novo mar. A cidade há de seguir-te”. Mesmo assim, ele queria conhecer a cidade onde o poeta vivera e amara, como ele vivia e amava no Rio de Janeiro, a milhares de quilômetros, sob outras estrelas, diante de outro mar. Caminhava pela noite do Rio, imaginando Kaváfis, em Alexandria, à procura de rapazes, mas sempre que os encontrava, e assim que começava a lhes falar do poeta e a lhes recitar os primeiros versos, logo o deixavam só com seus poemas. E só lhe restava continuar girando, sozinho, pelas ruas e depois ao som da música hipnotizante dos inferninhos. A cidade podia segui-lo aonde quer que fosse, mas ele tinha esperança de que pelo menos em novas terras e em novo mar haveria de encontrar quem os poemas seduzissem.

Desde o dia em que o tio o levou ao Cairo, ele nunca mais voltou para casa, nunca mais reviu a mãe nem os peixes. Cumprindo o desígnio do irmão mais velho, o tio o deixou na casa daqueles que, na falta de um pai, deveriam zelar pela sua educação. E, durante todos os anos em que estudou a palavra do profeta, ele procurou, em segredo e em vão, pelas ruas, passagens e becos, os mesmos homens de branco, girando ao som da música hipnotizante que ouvira ao chegar à cidade. Bastaria ter perguntado a alguém na rua. Mas nunca se atreveu. Temia de alguma maneira que Deus o ouvisse e que seu interesse pelos homens que giravam acabasse chegando aos ouvidos do irmão mais velho, na prisão. Uma única vez, traído pela solidão, confidenciou a um colega de estudos a vontade de revê-los, e o assunto, como havia previsto, foi parar na prisão. Na semana seguinte, durante as horas de visita, o irmão mais velho o fitou com olhos de fogo, falou-lhe das tentações, do demônio e dos ímpios estrangeiros, e o exortou a continuar rezando.

Foi o que ele fez. Rezou sem parar, durante anos, até entrar naquele hotel, às 17h de uma tarde de domingo, e passar pelo detector de metais com uma mala vazia. Como fora instruído, atravessou o lobby simplório, com tapetes encardidos no chão e infiltrações nas paredes, e se dirigiu à recepção, onde pediu um quarto com vista para a praça. Era o código. O recepcionista lhe ofereceu um quarto no primeiro andar, uma artimanha para o caso de alguém ouvi-los e depois poder testemunhar, candidamente, a favor da inocência do recepcionista. O rapaz respondeu que tinha problemas para dormir com o barulho. O recepcionista então lhe ofereceu um quarto de fundos, que ele também recusou. Queria um quarto de frente, num andar mais alto. Ao consultar a planilha, o recepcionista descobriu um quarto disponível no quinto andar – veja que sorte! – e pediu um documento ao hóspede, que lhe entregou, como esperado, um passaporte falso.

Às 17h20, ele abriu a porta do quarto escuro, com luvas finas de látex, para não deixar rastros, e rezou mais uma vez. As cortinas estavam fechadas. Ele as abriu e o sol de fim de tarde o iluminou. Era um homem de dezoito anos, com a vida pela frente. Voltou-se para a mala vazia que deixara em cima da cama, como um hóspede de verdade também poderia ter feito, esquadrinhou o quarto com os olhos, foi até o armário e o abriu. O saco plástico estava lá dentro, no fundo de uma prateleira, como combinado. Era um saco translúcido e esverdeado, como os que os pescadores costumavam depositar aos pés de sua mãe, sempre com os piores peixes, sob o olhar dos turistas estrangeiros que chegavam nos barcos.

Às 18h30, um jovem estrangeiro com uma mochila nas costas chegou à praça e procurou um lugar entre as mesas do lado de fora do café repleto de turistas, na calçada embaixo do hotel barato. Tinha dezoito anos e a vida pela frente. No dia seguinte, ia finalmente realizar seu sonho, conhecer Alexandria, a cidade do poeta. Sentou-se, pediu uma coca-cola e tirou da mochila um livro usado. Abriu-o na página marcada e, depois de olhar para a praça e para céu do crepúsculo, leu para si o primeiro verso de um poema que conhecia de cor: “O que esperamos na ágora reunidos?”, como se o lesse pela primeira vez.

Às 18h40, o rapaz da mala vazia voltou ao quarto no quinto andar depois de uma breve ausência. Tinha ido se certificar de que a saída de serviço para o telhado estava mesmo aberta e que, como lhe haviam dito, dava acesso aos prédios vizinhos, sua rota de fuga. Fechou as cortinas e procurou o saco plástico no fundo do armário. Abriu o embrulho malfeito, guardado dentro do saco plástico. Observou, na penumbra do quarto, o objeto sobre a colcha desbotada, cor de laranja, que cobria a cama. Rezou. Por alguns segundos, não se mexeu, não fez nada, assim como, anos antes, ficara imóvel diante dos homens de branco que giravam sem parar.

Logo ali embaixo, o jovem estrangeiro pôs-se a ler o primeiro verso de outro poema que conhecia de cor: “Desde dez e meia, ele esperou no café”. Cinco andares acima, o rapaz terminou a reza e se debruçou sobre o artefato. E assim ficou por alguns segundos, antes de tocá-lo. Não podia errar. Não teria uma segunda chance. Qualquer erro podia ser fatal. Fazia o que devia ser feito, ele repetia em silêncio, para se convencer. Rezou de novo, mas em vez de virgens no paraíso, desta vez viu os homens de branco girando, sempre girando. Manipulou o objeto como lhe ensinaram. Às 19h, tomou-o nas mãos, com cuidado, aproximou-se da janela e, por entre as cortinas, deixou-o cair sobre as mesas do café, cinco andares abaixo, onde se reuniam os turistas estrangeiros no final da tarde e onde um rapaz, terminando sua coca-cola, com um livro aberto na mão, chegava ao final de mais um poema que conhecia de cor.

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VOLTAR

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Imagens: Sebastian Freire