than her head. She was sitting in a first-row seat listening to a warmongering speech by Slobodan Miloševi, beaming and nodding like a grotesque mascot or mechanical dog.
A handful of the selfsame dreams
And selfsame secrets—
Secrets of love and love of country—
Rested deep in their pockets,
And all of them thought they had
All the time in the world
To run beneath the firmament
And solve the world’s problems…
The path taken by the innocent poem had begun with a historical event: the death of a group of children during a war. Once the event was embedded in the poem, the poem was embedded in the school program. By the time fifty years had passed, what was meant to be an antiwar poem had turned into its opposite: the smile the poetess gave the nation’s leader represented symbolic support of the war he was waging and everything it implied. Here in the Amsterdam pub the lines trickled from the mouth of the young refugee like a repulsive drool. It couldn’t have been more painful, more wrong. Uroš had missed the mark. Fatally. If we listened without a peep, it was not because we were shocked by the poem or Uroš’s performance; it was because we were shocked by Uroš’s himself. Uroš had pricked the balloon that was holding us together, and our collective nostalgia whooshed out and disappeared. The magic of the moment had turned to alarm.
Row after row of children
Joined hands and left the classroom,
Going from their last lesson
To the firing squad meekly,
As if death had no meaning.
Having recited the final line, he collapsed into his chair. No one said a word. The only sound in the room was Ante’s soft accompaniment. Uroš pulled a twenty-five-guilder banknote out of his pocket, spat on it, and slapped it onto Ante’s forehead. The accordion fell silent. Uroš brought his hand down hard on the cup in front of him, breaking it to pieces. Then he slammed his head against the table.
As he raised it, I saw thin jets of blood trickling down his face. I heard a shriek coming from Nevena or Ana or Meliha. I saw Mario and Igor lifting him from the table and dragging him to the men’s room. I was numb. I felt completely cut off. I could hear what people were saying, but their voices sounded infinitely distant.
“That was like in the Petrovimovie I Even Met Happy Gypsies .”
“With Uroš in the role of Bekim Fehmiu.”
“Fehmi.”
“Since when are you an expert on Shiptar names?”
“Since when do you call Albanians Shiptars?”
“Why do ‘our people’ always end up like this? Why do we make a bloody mess out of everything?”
After a while the guys came back. Uroš looked fairly together. Igor and Mario had done a good job: they had washed the blood from his face, bandaged it up with some help from the owner, and wound somebody’s scarf round his hand.
“Sorry if I…,” Uroš mumbled on the way out.
By now the voices sounded normal again, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say.
“Hey there, Comrade. You okay? You’re as pale as a ghost.” It was Igor.
I nodded and asked for a glass of water. The waiter appeared. We paid. I put the presents into my bag. We left the pub in silence.
We came out into a thick fog. You could barely see your hand before your face.
“Christ! A pea-souper!”
My only response was a few deep breaths.
The students looked at me, bouncing up and down to keep warm, then began to disperse.
“I have the feeling I’m in one of those Carpenter movies,” Mario cried out through the fog.
“Look, don’t get all upset over Uroš,” said Meliha by way of consolation. “Balkan bashes have Balkan endings.”
“I’m okay,” I muttered. “See you in two weeks.”
“Going to Zagreb for the holidays?” Nevena asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Have a good trip!” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Bring back some of that good Zagreb chocolate.”
One by one they disappeared into the fog. Before long only
A handful of the selfsame dreams
And selfsame secrets—
Secrets of love and love of country—
Rested deep in their pockets,
And all of them thought they had
All the time in the world
To run beneath the firmament
And solve the world’s problems…
The path taken by the innocent poem had begun with a historical event: the death of a group of children during a war. Once the event was embedded in the poem, the poem was embedded in the school program. By the time fifty years had passed, what was meant to be an antiwar poem had turned into its opposite: the smile the poetess gave the nation’s leader represented symbolic support of the war he was waging and everything it implied. Here in the Amsterdam pub the lines trickled from the mouth of the young refugee like a repulsive drool. It couldn’t have been more painful, more wrong. Uroš had missed the mark. Fatally. If we listened without a peep, it was not because we were shocked by the poem or Uroš’s performance; it was because we were shocked by Uroš’s himself. Uroš had pricked the balloon that was holding us together, and our collective nostalgia whooshed out and disappeared. The magic of the moment had turned to alarm.
Row after row of children
Joined hands and left the classroom,
Going from their last lesson
To the firing squad meekly,
As if death had no meaning.
Having recited the final line, he collapsed into his chair. No one said a word. The only sound in the room was Ante’s soft accompaniment. Uroš pulled a twenty-five-guilder banknote out of his pocket, spat on it, and slapped it onto Ante’s forehead. The accordion fell silent. Uroš brought his hand down hard on the cup in front of him, breaking it to pieces. Then he slammed his head against the table.
As he raised it, I saw thin jets of blood trickling down his face. I heard a shriek coming from Nevena or Ana or Meliha. I saw Mario and Igor lifting him from the table and dragging him to the men’s room. I was numb. I felt completely cut off. I could hear what people were saying, but their voices sounded infinitely distant.
“That was like in the Petrovimovie I Even Met Happy Gypsies .”
“With Uroš in the role of Bekim Fehmiu.”
“Fehmi.”
“Since when are you an expert on Shiptar names?”
“Since when do you call Albanians Shiptars?”
“Why do ‘our people’ always end up like this? Why do we make a bloody mess out of everything?”
After a while the guys came back. Uroš looked fairly together. Igor and Mario had done a good job: they had washed the blood from his face, bandaged it up with some help from the owner, and wound somebody’s scarf round his hand.
“Sorry if I…,” Uroš mumbled on the way out.
By now the voices sounded normal again, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say.
“Hey there, Comrade. You okay? You’re as pale as a ghost.” It was Igor.
I nodded and asked for a glass of water. The waiter appeared. We paid. I put the presents into my bag. We left the pub in silence.
We came out into a thick fog. You could barely see your hand before your face.
“Christ! A pea-souper!”
My only response was a few deep breaths.
The students looked at me, bouncing up and down to keep warm, then began to disperse.
“I have the feeling I’m in one of those Carpenter movies,” Mario cried out through the fog.
“Look, don’t get all upset over Uroš,” said Meliha by way of consolation. “Balkan bashes have Balkan endings.”
“I’m okay,” I muttered. “See you in two weeks.”
“Going to Zagreb for the holidays?” Nevena asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Have a good trip!” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Bring back some of that good Zagreb chocolate.”
One by one they disappeared into the fog. Before long only
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