HER FIRST LOVE AFFAIR
(To my friend Dusanka Andrejevic)

"How old is your daughter now? Sixteen?" The silvery-haired lady smiles kindly at me.

"I was about her age, a bit younger, when I fell in love for the first time in my life and thought I was ready to get married." And she leans back in her armchair and laughs, her eyes full of memories and mirth.

"Why don't you tell us about it?" my teenage-daughter is encouraging. I just nod in agreement.

"It was a long time ago, after the World War One. My family lived in Krushevats, a city in Serbia. My parents were well-to-do people, my father a popular family physician. A circus came to town. Circus "Adria," I remember clearly. You can imagine, the entertainment was scarce then, so it was a great attraction. I used to go to all shows, except for the last, night performance. Day after day. "

"Did you go by yourself? How was it to be a teenager in Europe so long ago, after the World War I?" My daughter wants to know. I do too, for my own purposes.

"Oh, it was quite safe at that time, also everybody knew everybody, especially my father. The first time, my aunt took me to the circus, after that I kept going by myself. Watching the clowns, animals, and everything else, I fell in love with the circus atmosphere. I constantly daydreamed about joining them to spend my life traveling around the world. I could see myself in gorgeous, shimmering costumes, on a tightrope; dancing Spanish dances with castanets, even taming some wild animals. Soon, I started feeling a part of the Circus myself. It was not a dream anymore, but my reality."

"I know what you mean," I blurt enthusiastically. "Even with adults, circus has a charm that is not easy to explain. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"It's all right," the old lady smiles with understanding. "Naturally, soon I saw the circus director, too. He was a handsome man, probably in his early thirties, already a widower. His wife, the only daughter of a banker, had eloped with him when she was eighteen. Sadly, she died, giving a birth to a little girl."

"How romantic!" My daughter interrupts.

"It seems people were much more romantic in the old times than we tend to be today." I inject my favorite theory. "We live too fast. No time for anything meaningful to develop."

"I believe so, too," the old lady agrees.

"Romance either happens or it doesn't," my daughter corrects me. "Please continue," she adds impatiently.

"I was watching the circus shows daily, falling in love with the animals, clowns, and the Director himself. Although I was about fifteen, physically I looked more mature, probably because I had been taking ballet lessons since age five. My body was pleasantly shaped and I was aware of it. I was spoiled, too spoiled for words. Everything had to be just the way I wanted it. I was the only child, you see, and it was too late for my parents to have more children."

I am listening carefully, nodding my head. A widow, I am raising a single child myself.

"Well, the Director must have noticed my faithful support of his shows. He probably wondered why I was spending all my pocket money on his circus. Maybe I had been staring at him a bit too much, too. One afternoon, after the show, he approached me and talked to me in a very gentle manner.

'Young lady, or may I call you Dushanka; you need not introduce yourself to me. I know who you are. I have been taken with you for a long time. I am only afraid that my dreams will never come true. You are too young and your parents are of better standing than I am.'

'I don' t care. I am not a child anymore. If I leave home, I can make a living. What you don't know is: I am a very talented dancer and have performed publicly. My teacher tells me I am going to have a brilliant career. My parents know that, too.' I spilled all of that readily, since, in my daydreams, I had rehearsed that "scene" daily. Now I looked at the Director questioningly.

'I don't doubt your talents, my darling, but I know your father will sooner have me arrested than give your hand to me.' And he looked deep into my eyes, pleadingly, exactly like in the movies.

"I could not believe he was actually proposing. I did not dare hope it would be that easy. I was ready to do anything to keep him. 'Then, I will elope,' I suggested."

The old lady lowers her head, as if heavy with the load of her memories. Her smile is still sweet but somewhat sad too.

"Oh, no." I interject." It must have been a wrong thing to say: he already had had one marriage based on elopement. Haven't you thought of that?"

"No. Nobody thinks much at that age, especially when you feel you are in love and ready for marriage. I wanted the Director to know how worldly and liberated I was. The word elope was actually new to me and I have never used it before. However, I certainly wanted to impress him with my maturity and self-assurance. I had learned the word "elope" in respect to his late wife and, to me, it seemed as an entrance ticket of a sort. I didn't realize that it was not exactly a good idea to remind him of it, or to show that I knew.

During our conversation, the Director chatted about my father, his profession, our family friends, the neighborhood, and so on, while I thought how nice and sweet he was. I didn't listen, enwrapped in my own excitement. I didn't doubt that he loved me, because I have been used to being loved and took it for granted. I felt the greatest proof of love was the fact that he proposed to me. In some books and movies, that was the ultimate proof of one's love. The episode didn't appear odd to me at all. Therefore, before I left, I told him I loved him and was ready to elope with him."

"What did he say to that?" My daughter is all ears. "This is getting serious." She moves her chair closer to the old lady's.

"So I thought at the time, too. He just kissed my hand and looked deep into my eyes. That too was just like in the movies, except that at that point they usually kiss passionately. I almost expected that."

"Were you not disappointed?" my daughter asks, smiling knowingly.

"No, I thought he was honorable and patient." The old lady answers seriously. "After that conversation I was completely sure I was going to do everything to marry him.

That night I took a chair from my room and placed it outside my window, behind the bushes. My plan was to leave through the back window while everybody was asleep. It was another romantic thing conceived in my mind, but there was a practical reason for it too. I couldn't leave through the door and go to the late night circus show, as I had intended, because -- you see -- at that time there was no television, and people usually sat outside, in front of their homes, chatting with their neighbors and relaxing, cooling off before going to bed. Men would smoke their pipes and discuss world politics, women exchange recipes and gossip. In fact, it was a nice community social time, better than TV, and almost as informative." She laughs mischievously, looking at me for understanding.

"I hear this from many people." I agree.

"Oh, Mom." My daughter sighs with genuine annoyance.

The lady proceeds, undisturbed. "My intention was to go to the late show and stay with the Director. I hoped that my absence from home would not be discovered till the next day before it was too late for a drastic, immediate action. My only fear had been that the neighbors might see me leaving in that unusual way. "

"That would turn the romance into embarrassment. Right?" I am reassured the story has ended happily, since the protagonist is sitting in front of my eyes, safe and sound, much older, of course, but evidently quite happy.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. Previous to that, I had a little confrontation with my parents. That only made me more deliberate to elope. During the dinner, with everybody present at the table, my mother gave me a piece of her mind for neglecting my homework and my ballet classes and spending too much time at the Circus. I can still picture the scene..." the old lady leans back in her armchair and closes her eyes.

"...Our dining room with a big oak table, our maid serving the dessert, while I -- in the middle of my mother's scolding -- snap at her: 'Well, you will no longer treat me as a baby. I'm leaving.'

Nobody paid much attention, so I added, louder, 'I'm getting married.'

My father, who was a kind, patient man and whose pet I'd always been, gently smiled and asked: 'Who is the fortunate groom?'

Encouraged, I boastfully announce: 'He is a director. The Circus director.' Even saying that made me swell with pride. I knew they would finally take me seriously. Probably even envy for traveling around the world in those cute wagons. But, Mom and Dad just exchanged glances and my father agreed with Mom: 'No more Circus for you, young lady. Study hard to make up for the missed work. I want to see your homework. Understand?'

Pouting, as usually, I thought, 'I'll show you I'm not kidding.' I could hardly wait for the dark to elope." And the old lady sat there, smiling, as if tired of all the memories, unable to continue.

"And, what happened?" My daughter must know the ending, immediately.

Watching the old lady's fine features, I wait for her to collect her thoughts.

"Well, I used the chair to get out, went to the show, but the Director was nowhere to be seen, so I had to return home for the time being. My chair was still there, but so was my father, sitting on it, waiting for me. That night, for the first time, my father beat the heck out of me. I shall never forget the pain. It hurt a lot and I couldn't sit on my derriere for a long time.

It completely killed my passion. I was not ready to fall in love again for many years. And I have never again felt so ready for marriage, no matter what, as in that case with the Circus Director. He ended up being important, although not through marriage. Yes. That was my first love affair."

No comment from my teenage daughter. We are all silent, in our own thoughts.

Memoirs and Short Stories
I SPY

Something strange is happening in our home. During the day everything is normal. Mom and Dad talk to each other, even laugh. Sometimes they argue, though. But, during the night, that is when those strange things happen.

I am afraid that Dad hates Mom, that he wants to kill her. He is trying, for sure. Sometimes, I wake up and hear Mom like breathe heavily, even like scream a bit. I can hear it in my room I am not dreaming. It happened more than once, you know. Believe me. There is like some commotion going on there. They whisper, then she comes out and goes to the bathroom. Later, he goes too. I am sure he beats her and she has to wash the blood from her face and body. They don't want me to know. My mother always hides things that could upset me, I know. But I am not a child anymore. I know. It is exactly like in the movies that I watch late Friday nights. That's why Dad doesn't want me to watch late movies anymore. He knows I will learn too much from them. But I already know.

I'm going to help my Mom. I'm going to save her. I'll kill Dad if he hurts her. I hate to see when they kiss before he goes to his office, like nothing is happening in the night. But I'm not a dummy and I'm watching close. Maybe she has to pretend everything is OK if she is planning to escape. I will help her and go with her. We don't need him anyway. He wouldn't buy me a new bike. He hates me because I am a man. I can already fish better than him. I could drive his new car if he would let me.

One of these days I'm going to take Mom away. Just watch me!

Memoirs and Short Stories
ANICA

Lana and I are sitting at the Garden Cafe, in Wichita, Kansas (just because it is so Mediterranean, and Lana claims I am very Mediterranean myself). She is drinking cappuccino, smiling a Saganesque "certain sourir," probably dreaming of the sunny Italy, since it is rather murky outside and the nasty Kansas wind is swirling dry leaves and plastic bags around and under the parked cars. Inside here, everything is full of light, just like in Italy: the creamy walls, the pastel floral drapes on the tall windows and the white-painted gazebo in the middle of the restaurant. Soft, vibrant, larger-than-life watercolors of fruits and vegetables enhance already warm atmosphere. If anything is missing, it is the sound of Modugnio's song "Volare, o-oh," to make me forty years younger and back in Belgrade, Yugoslavia where in the fifties, after the San Remo Festival, everybody was singing or whistling "Nel blu, di pinto di blu..." And the skies were clear and blue -- like the new-born-baby's eyes -- everywhere, in Yugoslavia, Italy, and Greece and all over the Mediterranean. Young as we were then, my brother and I, as well as our friends -- like Modugnio -- we all felt so free and light, ready to fly (volare o-oh) and sing (cantare o-o-o-oh)

Yes, young and happy we were then. Now, with a deep, nostalgic sigh, I am digging into my Caesar's Salad, which I have ordered not only because I wish I were in Rome, but because here, in America, everybody is talking about cholesterol count and weight watching, and I am an American now.

"Mira, why are you smiling? What are you thinking just now," Lana is asking with a playful gleam in her eyes. But she has a thick mustache of cappuccino cream on her face (like the TV milk commercial) and I cannot stop laughing wildly, while her eyes turn big in surprise, round like two saucers.

"A woman, sitting at the table in the corner, has just reminded me of someone from my youth," I smile again.

Looking discreetly in that direction, Lana excitedly turns to me, "Please tell me about her. That woman from your youth, I mean." And she nestles in her seat, prepared for a long story.

"Her name was Anica. It is not pronounced Anika but Ahnitsa. It is a Slavic name, a diminutive of Anna, like the French Annette." And I smile again. Thinking of Anica, one would have to smile.

"Anica? I have never heard that name before," Lana exclaims, intrigued.

"Anica was a rare human being. Her soul was deep like the Siberian Lake Baikal (her father was a Russian immigrant), her heart big like the Pannonian Plains (her mother was a Serb). My husband liked her most of all my friends."

"Oh, you must tell me all about her. She sounds like a fascinating woman." Lana implores, her eyes full of question marks.

"I don' t know where to start. Yes, Anica was a fascinating person. Wait till you hear the whole story, then decide."

" What do you mean? This sounds more and more intriguing," Lana insists.

"When I met her, Anica had so much naiveté in her, that one could call her a girl, although she was twenty-six at the time. In our office, nobody really knew much about Anica. She was extremely nice to everyone, nicer than anyone else, but she was also shy and very private. While others gossiped, she worked. She always found time to help others, always volunteered to do what others didn't want to do. While other women spent much time fixing their hair and make-up in front of the large mirror in the lady's room, Anica sat quietly working. She never used any make-up and her hair didn't need any styling. It was healthy and naturally wavy.

"Was she attractive?" Lana wants to know. And, in my mind's eye I see a tall, healthy looking young woman, with brownish hair and warm, Slavic eyes, her shy smile and quiet, kind demeanor.

"I think she was, but not in the way that men would turn around to see her or whistle after her."

Lana smiles knowingly and I continue:" Anica had an active, busy life, not only in the office. She was always on the go, interested in so many things. For instance, she would drop unexpectedly to see me, just to say hello, as she called it, on her way to yoga class, an international club session, a foreign language class, or a volunteer work of some kind."

"Oh, so yoga was popular in Yugoslavia even then?"

"Sure. We had some really good instructors. Mine was trained in India, for instance. I enjoyed classes myself. I was interested in many things myself; therefore Anica and I saw each other outside of the office, too. She majored in English, as well."

"What did women, Anica and you, for instance, wear in those days?" Lana is curious to know.

"Curiosity, thy name is woman," one could rightfully miss-quote Shakespeare.

The question makes me think: again, I see Anica in her clean, starched white blouses and a simple, dark skirt. I don't remember anything else, except the white swimsuit at the Sava River beach. I remember my own white blouses, but some other dresses as well: a skin-colored, fitted shantung raw silk that did turn men's heads and made them whistle (Mediterranean men do that easily), or a plum-colored, floral dress with a rich, wide skirt I usually wore with my ballerina shoes. Oh, and I remember all the dances in those same shoes.

"Both Anica and I wore white blouses to work, but variety of other things outside it, I presume. The fashion was similar to yours. The youth in Belgrade dressed American, danced to the American music, as well as Italian and French, watched and liked good, American movies, but also Italian, Swedish, French and others. People traveled, and Anica was quite a world traveler. She spoke several foreign languages: Russian, English, French and German."

"That's impressive. Back to clothing: did you wear high heels or just ballerina shoes? I don't know why I need to know that?" Lana smiles.

"Both Anica and I were somewhat taller than the rest. Other women wore high heels to work almost all the time. She and I didn't. She never wore heels, I wore small ones. Remember so called Louis heels? They were just what I needed: not too tall, but elegant and feminine. We wore them in the fifties, but I never stopped loving them. Anica dressed sportier, also in such a way that she successfully covered her body and no curves were showing (God forbid!). I loved fitted dresses, but also the ones that had rich, swirly skirts."

"She sounds like a Plain Jane, but I like her," Lana concludes. "Was she religious?"

"I'm sure yes, but her clothes had nothing to do with it. Her parents were not young when they had her, and they raised her in that way. She was an old-fashioned good girl with the education and skills of a modern woman. Definitely a person to be respected and loved."

And, again, in front of me, like on a movie screen, appears Anica's face: her big, warm, Slavic eyes and a ready smile, fresh and clean like in a baby. A sensitive, kind, talented and creative girl.

"Did she date anyone?" Lana interrupts my memories.

"That will be answered in due time." I am teasing.

"I can gather the answer already." She challenges.

"Don't be too sure. There is more to come. At home, Anica helped her mother cook, bake, clean, or wash. In spare time, she would sew or knits, as well as baby sit for her sister's kids, help the neighbors' children with homework or translate from foreign languages. In fact, she and I often consulted each other whenever we had difficulties in translating. She and her parents did a lot of gardening, preserving and pickling and Anica was good at that, too."

"I'm surprised some man hadn't grabbed her for marriage. She would've been perfect." Lana smiles at me, question marks in her eyes.

"Anica was a connoisseur of classical music. She had a large collection of records that she had brought from her travels abroad. Her father had some old, beautiful Russian records of Shalyapin, many old folk songs and gypsy music, too. After her tours, Anica corresponded with the people she had met abroad. She had many friends in different countries. I'll never forget one of those."

"You got to meet some?"

"Sure. A young woman from Holland. Her name was Lineke. Fat and pimpled, with a round, shiny face and greasy hair, I could never successfully connect her with that lovely country of serene landscapes with windmills, canals, radiant tulips and friendly, hardworking people."

"Yes, that's how I imagine Holland, too, although I haven't been there."

"Anica corresponded with Lineke for a long time. She probably invited her to come and spend summer with her, although Anica and her parents were not well off at all. Lineke came unexpectedly that summer, with all her pimples, greasy hair and no luggage whatsoever. Anica had to give her everything, from a toothbrush to an umbrella, including a swimsuit and some pocket money. Naturally, Anica took her everywhere, showed her around and introduced her to all the people she knew. She brought her to the office as well. That's where the problem started."

"Aha, we are getting into some really interesting stuff here. Lineke will be an undercover spy." Lana is kidding.

"Hardly. They are usually beautiful. It helps," I retort immediately.

"Maybe her pimples were part of the cover-up scheme?" Lana develops her theory.

"Oh, no. The pimples were real. They never disappeared, but Lineke did."

"What do you mean? Is it a murder story?" Lana makes a disgusted face. She has seen too many of those on TV.

"Not exactly, but it certainly got Anica worried. She even consulted a family friend, a policeman. The days were passing, no Lineke. Finally, she reappeared: in a good mood, pimpled and greasy haired as ever. She had spent time with Djoka, in his apartment. Djoka was a guy from the other department: dark-eyed, dark-haired, with the same greasiness about him that Lineke had. I don't mean his hair only but the whole personality. He went around with a permanent smile plastered on his face. It reminded me of the thought:" One can smile and smile, and be a villain." Djoka was the only one who closed his door when he made phone calls, some distressed damsels and crying girls were often emerging from his office. He was just that kind of a guy."

"Funny name, Djoka. Sounds like a jock."

"Quite appropriate. Djoka, in Yugoslavia, is the same as Dick in America."

"Oh. It's fitting then."

"Quite so. When Lineke returned safe and sound, Anica was relieved and happy. She forgave them immediately, without really understanding it. Nobody paid much attention when she contemplated, aloud, how easily friendship could be killed by lack of trust. Lineke stayed till the end of the summer, then returned to Holland. This time she had some luggage. I don't believe she bothered to send a thank-you note to Anica. To Djoka - maybe."

"Back to Anica. What happened to her?" Lana cradles her face in both hands, her elbows on the table, her, eyes fixed on mine.

"Oh, she stayed the same giving person that made everybody happy whenever she was around. She loved everybody and understood everything. You know how people who are not happy themselves know how to make others happy."

"I don't know. I am not sure. I don't believe that unhappy people make anyone else happy. Why do you say Anica was unhappy? She had so much going for her. I thought she was happy."

"I'll tell you what I mean. It needs some explanation. For several years, Anica had been in love with a man some twenty years her senior, a disappointed loner, out of touch with life. After the divorce, he had shut himself up in his messy, cluttered, deteriorated home and was not much seen since then. He did not have visitors either, except for a woman, a skinny, arrogant typist -- I forgot her name -- who visited him on a regular basis. Actually, she had a key to his house. I believe she did his shopping for him, too. He declared he did not want her around, called her a stupid bitch, but never took his key from her."

"Did they have an affair?"

"Most likely. Anica was worried that he was going to marry that typist. I felt sure that he was not going to do anything, take no action. Things had to happen to him. Poor Anica had got entangled in that strange psychological triangle, bringing in her devotion, patience, and stubbornness. You have no idea how many times I'd told her to go out with someone her age, get married, and have children. She loved children. No way. Nothing worked. I had tried everything."

"Like what? What can one try?" Lana is asking, genuinely concerned.

"For a long time I had just listened patiently. Then, I repeatedly told her to drop that loser or she might end up becoming one herself. When nothing worked, I turned it around and suggested how to seduce him."

"What? Are you crazy?" Laughing with tears in her eyes, Lana can hardly speak:" Why would she seduce that good-for-nothing piece of dung? What would she need him for?"

"I didn't really want her to seduce him. I don't believe in it. I also believed he was safely dead enough not to notice anything. When I suggested dressing more femininely, like other girls of her age, I hoped she would go out to a dance or something and find someone of her age. I also planned on breaking that sick, stagnant atmosphere, causing something to happen, to finally let some fresh air of real life touch all those people. Not for a moment did I expect her to seduce him, of course. Not to mention that I myself had no idea how to seduce anyone. The movies are full of those scenes but I never believed it had anything to do with real life."

"That makes sense. Seriously, who would ever do any of the sleazy things the movies show? You'd have to be crazy, drunk, on drugs, or whatever else that puts you out of your right mind."

"Exactly. I was kidding, of course, knowing that seduction was out of question for any girl in our circle. We were painfully shy around the opposite sex, although we were educated, well read and well traveled. We had no life experience whatsoever and could only hope it didn't show too much."

"I know what you mean. The same here. But what did you suggest? Let's have your seduction techniques out in the open. You may be an expert in disguise." Knowing me quite well, Lana laughs at the paradox till the tears come out of her eyes.

"Oh, I don't think I've ever qualified as an expert, disguised or not, however there was nobody in that triangle that would know the difference. I told Anica to dress more femininely and attractively, meaning: to cut and curl her hair, wear fitted skirts and high heels, and to buy a good perfume. That was the extent of my knowledge on the subject. This still was more than she knew. I was married, after all. That counted for some experience, at least in Anica's eyes." Now both Lana and I laugh till tears come to our eyes and people at the surrounding tables start looking at us questioningly. Nobody has that much fun in Kansas. Under normal conditions, that is."

" Did you remember to suggest black lace, too? So, the old school of seduction is not forgotten?" Lana literally chokes with sustained laughter. "What happened? Any success...if seducing that loser could be called a success."

"I did not see Anica for a long time. I changed my job and didn't work with her anymore, but we stayed friends anyway."

"Where did you work?"

"In a library. Anica stayed in the business firm. When I finally saw her again, I forgot about the seduction scheme, having been absorbed with my own life and work. When she came to visit me, I almost whistled, like the men do when they see an attractive woman. She had done what I'd told her and the results were astonishing. Her hair was short and perky, and she looked much younger. Her legs were great in high heels and I finally got to see her body. It was very shapely. Anica was quite attractive! We would have never known. She was not kidding, either. It was not only her perfume; there was something genuinely intriguing about new-Anica. But, she had no time, and couldn't stay to talk much. She only wanted me to see "the new her" and said she would talk to me more the next time we meet."

Lana's face lights with genuine empathy: "I'm so glad Anica finally realized what an attractive woman she actually was, not a shy girl anymore!"

" I don't remember now whether I saw her again before our crucial conversation..." I started.

"Crucial?" A shadow of worry passes over Lana's face. "Get on with it, please. I cannot wait."

"I remember having seen her in a store, in passing. She didn't look too good and I asked if she was feeling well. She started crying. I took her to a small park, outside, and we sat on a bench and talked."

"Oh, my God, I know something awful had happened to that poor girl."

"Yes, but...Don't worry, Lana, wait till you hear it all. Anica wanted to talk but didn't know how to start. She was going around and around "kao kisa oko Kragujevca," as the Serbian saying goes.

"What's 'cow kish ah oh koh Kragooyeftsah'?"

"Oh, that just means 'like the rain around Kragujevac city,' which means lingering, not directly. But I knew how to deal with Anica. Sometimes I just had to pull words out of her mouth like the dentist pulls teeth. I had a feeling that she must have done something I wouldn't have approved of. I asked her if she had sent that man a mushy love letter and the typist caught it and harassed her; or, if she walked in front of his home late in the night and the typist poured dirty dish water on her, or something of that sort. When I insisted on the answer, she softly replied:

'Oh, it's something much worse...this time,' and she didn't even dare to look at me while talking.

'Never mind, Anica, just spit it out, you will feel better.' I urged her, trying to help.

'You will be mad at me,' Anica dared to lift her eyes from her shoes and briefly look into mine.

'Since when does it make any difference? You know I can't be mad at you. Only God knows why. Come on, big girl.'

'This time it's serious. Very serious. I can't tell anyone.'

'Finally something serious. If you haven't murdered him, the rest is fine.'

'You don't understand. I've done it. You know what I mean. I've gone all the way. I had to do it. I had to try all in my power.' Blushing to the roots of her hair, Anica focused on the tips of her shoes again.

"It was my turn to be silent now. I was not sure if I'd understood her right. I thought I knew her: she had never kissed a man in her life, not to mention anything more. I looked at her in disbelief, but her head was sinking even lower.

My heart went to her. Poor Anica. I had always scolded her, always told her what to do, what not to do. She asked my opinion and my advice, never really taking it, because she thought I was 'against her love.' Just once she had done what I'd told her, and look what happened, just because she wanted to do everything for that wrong, wrong man. This was all my fault; never mind my good intentions. Look what happened. Mea culpa, mea culpa.

Then I started noticing more details. She had a crushed and crumpled look, her clothes carelessly put together and unmatched, hair not fixed. Her eyes full of suffering, like the eyes of a stray dog kicked out of all homes. Poor Anica. I was never going to scold her again. But what could I tell her to make her feel better now? She mustn't know what I really think and how bad I really feel. It won't help her. I collect myself and fake light-heartedness:

'Is that all? What is so shocking about it? You are not a minor, almost thirty. You haven't done anything new or original. People do that daily. It is rather natural, you know. He wouldn't have been my choice under any circumstances, as I had explained many times, but...Anyway, you are a woman now. Welcome to the club." And I hugged her heartily.

Anica smiled a big, shy smile of relief and the words poured out of her in a torrent:'You don't know how much this means to me. I have no one else I may confide in. I hope I am not pregnant.'

'I don't think so. That can be checked, of course, if it bothers you too much. I'll be glad to help you. We've never talked about those things, but married women live with that uncertainty. Especially when the times are not right for a baby. Join the club, my dear! Now you have one more thing to worry about, in case you didn't have enough.'

'I think I'm all right. I hope you understand why I had to go all the way. I had to make things clear, to make myself clear to him. After all, what is it that keeps him with that stupid typist? What can she do that I cannot? People always say that sex makes all the difference in a relationship. I still don't see how.' Anica looked at me questioningly, her big, Slavic eyes suddenly old and tired.

'I did all you'd suggested. It must've worked because... he... we...Well, it happened. But then, I expected that difference that people talk about, but he didn't even call. After what we've had together, he never called. He'd never called before either, but it's different now. We hadn't been close before. I called him, and she answered the phone. She said he wasn't there. He is always there. What a lie. What humiliation. When I called again, he answered. He said I had a wrong number. He knows my voice just as I know his. There was nothing I could do. It was awful. Now, it's much worse than before. I cannot understand it.'

"Mira, I cannot take it." Lana touches my hand to stop me. "I feel I love that poor girl. I could kill the bastard. Please, just tell me how it all ended," Lana interrupts suddenly tired and without previous enthusiasm.

"Don't worry, Lana. Life has a way of settling matters that we cannot settle ourselves."

"I'm not sure that things resolve simply and successfully often enough," Lana sighs deeply, but smiles as well.

" Anything is possible in life, as you know. And you are a writer, although you deny it sometimes, out of modesty. Now, knowing the characters -- I'll give you two endings -- you tell me which one you believe really took place. Here is the first: nothing happened. People stay what they are. Probably, that man and the typist are still together, Anica is still full of love and understanding and his home is still falling apart. One day it will fall on him and his lover and kill them both."

"Oh, Mira. It's too Edgar Allan Poe-like. Give me the other option," Lana insists, seriously.

"The other one is my choice. I am known to cry in the mushy movies and want happy endings even if they don't sound realistic. In short, Anica is married with two children. Both she and her husband love nature and have built a small weekend house almost entirely with their own hands. They do things together and are a normal, happy family. Now, I wouldn't mention the past to Anica solely because it doesn't even sound like something that could have happened. It is a different story with different characters. That Anica does not exist anymore. I don't think she ever remembers the past. It doesn't sound real, almost like a strange dream."

"I like this ending. The first one may make a better story, but this is life."

"Yes. And it is the true ending. But it all happened many years ago. If Anica is alive, she is a grandmother now. That man was twenty years older then, so he may not be living anymore."

"Oh, he was so passive, noli me tangere (don't touch me) type of person. Even dying probably was too much to do, so he just procrastinated. I shouldn't be so mean, but I don't like weak and passive people. Like other parasites, they cause so much damage to others."

"Don't worry, Lana, life takes care of that too. Like a river -- my favorite simile -- it runs on, and we either swim or drown. Some float like dung..."

And we both laugh in celebration of life.

SANDRA
(To my life-long friend Alexandra, Danda Mijatov)

"Is it close to three o'clock yet?"

The work in our office is coming to an end and each of us is secretly checking the time. Every day about that time the work élan drops a bit and we unconsciously start some small talk about mothers-in-law and their bossiness, children and day care, food prices and utility cost. I am so sure it is not so only here, in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, but everywhere else in the world where people work for a living, while craving to go home and have some family time.

Today, we are rummaging through the names for a baby that is not even on the way. But, in the office with so many young, married women one should be ready at all times.

"How about Michelle?" Mrs. Bratic is asking. She has majored in French and it has played a major role in her life since.

"Or Jelena, Helena..." Branka is suggesting. "You can always call her Eli, Jela, Nena, Nina, or Nen..."

"These are fine if you like the foreign-sounding names. What about Liliana? It is feminine and flower-like." Mrs. Bratich brakes in. "Alexandra, on the other hand, would be quite international. Sandra for short."

Sandra! My thoughts diverge, rolling back to my high-school days. Alexandra...Sandra... my best friend in the junior year. Medium tall, slender, with finely shaped dark eyebrows and dark green eyes shadowed by the lush silky lashes. While the rest of us were still children, awkward and shy, she was a year ahead, with a promising beauty. The youngest of three daughters of "Steve the Carpenter," as everybody called him, she was not aware of her looks, because her eldest sister, Vera, was an acclaimed beauty.

Vera was darker, athletic, and a bit masculine, though attractive nevertheless. With Sandra everything was curves, like in Silvana Mangano in The Bitter Rice: a tiny waist and rich, perfectly shaped hips. Maybe a bit skinny otherwise, but her legs were already fully formed, so we could all envy her. What really made her outstanding were her eyes. Like the surface of a glacier lake in the middle of a deep forest, a shadow of her dark, restless eyelashes changed the color of her eyes from a dark emerald to a sunny bluish-gray.

She was quiet and we never knew her thoughts. Smiles were her specialty, smiles instead of questions and smiles for the answers. Silent, intriguing smiles. Not a brilliant student at all, she dreamt about school and tests long after graduation, always awakening in terror and sweat. When the teacher called her name, she would get up very slowly and with resignation of someone who did not expect anything good from it, but could not change it either. With her right hand, she was trying to open the textbook and find the answer to the teacher's question, with the left nervously fixing the bangs that didn't need any urgent fixing. Her hair was thin, brownish, neatly curled in the morning, hanging limp and straight by noon. Now when I think of her looks in detail, nothing was perfect, yet she was a beauty. Especially among us undeveloped teenagers.

Sandra and I were best friends, but during that time she never opened to me in any way. She would usually come to copy my homework in language arts and math. I had my assignments done -- or at least checked -- by my brother, who would, from time to time find an error in our textbooks and in the problems assigned by our old math teacher that looked very much like Santa Claus, especially at the ample circumference of his non existent waist. Although it was great to have someone do my homework, it was also very inconvenient to have a math genius for an older brother, because he would usually freely express his complete disillusionment with my ability to ever understand mathematics, after he had tried, unsuccessfully, to explain the assignments first.

Sandra never tried to understand math, either. She just copied the homework silently and with patience of someone who had lost hope long time ago. She never asked questions, or talked at any length at all. Just listened, really listened. She could listen better than anyone I knew. And smile. Smile her silent, intriguing smile.

In our junior year, we made a field trip to the Adriatic Coast. Those school field trips stayed in our memory as the most exciting experiences, although at the time they also were very tiring. It is because the transportation was nothing like today, only five or six years after the W.W.II, while the resources were very limited. That did not stop us from enjoying our field trip for many reasons. One of them was, the school was going on for all the others while we were free from the academic daily routine and the threat of tests.

The trip took place during the springtime, in the luscious Mediterranean decor, with the only guardian our favorite home teacher. She was our youngest teacher, strict and still shy as a novice, but we liked her. She would have been our choice for a guardian if we had been asked.

Just on that field trip many of us became aware that we were not kids anymore. It came naturally, as a pleasant shock and a revelation. First, our teacher treated us differently on the field trip than at school.

She talked to us as if we were her equals. We were so happy that she had been assigned to accompany us, not the old physics teacher or, even worse, Grandma Chemistry, as we called our good, old, tired chemistry teacher. Our home teacher, Milica, was young, very serious and dedicated. We thought she was strict and demanding as a teacher, but we had no doubt that she was good. I realize now, she was also very sensitive, shy, and lonely. We knew she was single, so we immediately assumed a previous, unhappy, romantic love as the reason for her not being married. She lived a very private life. Years later, a young librarian, a muscled, rather athletic, "macho" young woman moved in with her. They stayed together, as far as I know, for the rest of their lives. We thought it was "liberated," "worldly," and scandalous that they both smoked. Being teenagers, we often wondered about our teacher's love life, while she asked us questions about the social satire, poetic license, or subjunctive and plus-que-parfait, sonnets and blank verse. On those occasions we would have to avoid meeting her eyes, afraid that she could read our thoughts, lingering through some risqué areas and off the subjects she had so dedicatedly tried to teach us.

I often wonder if she had done it with other students as well, but when she returned my book reports to me, there would almost always be a long personal comment about my writing and how it triggered memories about her deceased mother, some childhood wounds, or something like that. She had a way of making me understand that she appreciated my writing and that she considered me mature and special enough to treat me as an equal, as a friend. A teacher myself, now I understand, and feel grateful.

During the field trip our teacher made it clear that we were not on the school time or schedule. She must have known that some of the boys were smoking. She never showed that she had noticed, and she never smoked in front of us either. When we finally arrived to Budva, at the Montenegrin coast, Milica was the first to take her dress off and jump into the water. She wore a two-piece swimsuit! It was quite a shock. We didn't know whether to admire her, be proud, or taken aback. She was so subdued and proper in the classroom. We realized, then, there was so much more we didn't know about her. Her body was a combination of soft and feminine, strong and athletic. Girlishly slender torso, lean hips, but strong, almost peasant-like, sturdy legs. She was a powerfully good swimmer! Nobody else could match her jumping, swimming, diving. She swam long and far into the open sea, and we lost sight and sense of time before she was back again.

In the meantime, back on the beach, we, girls, were reluctant to take our dresses off in front of the boys. Most of us wore one-piece swimsuits. Only four-or-five years after the World War II, our swimsuits were mostly home made, out of simple calico. Not all the girls were good swimmers, either. The worst was that we knew the boys were going to watch us closely and later comment on our legs, hips, god-knows-what.

It was easy for Sandra. In our eyes, she was perfect. Also, she didn't care what the boys thought of her. She cared only for Iva. And, during the train ride to the Adriatic Coast, on that same field trip, it became quite obvious how much he cared for her, too.

Iva was the best looking young man in our whole class, probably in our whole school. And he was a young man, while the rest were still boys.

When did this love really start? It was hard to tell. Since both of them were quiet and more mature than the rest, it may have developed without our knowledge. On our way to Omish and Budva, however, on the train, they were constantly together. They sat next to each other and kept their belongings in the same luggage. For the rest of us, it was the ultimate intimacy. In the evening, while everybody played innocent games like "the telephones," "post office" and a very anemic version of "spin the bottle," they were standing at the train window, silently watching the starry skies and the lush scenery passing by. It seemed they did not talk much. In the night, they slept on the same narrow wooden bench that represented their seat in our passenger class on the steam train still used in the late 1940's. We could not understand how they could both fit there. We had one each and complained how small and uncomfortable it was. There was no way we could get any rest. They shared it voluntarily and enjoyed sharing it. Constantly together, they were like one, holding hands, or embracing, she like an ivy vine entwined around him.

Secretly, we watched them, not understanding, but envying, gossiping, pretending to be shocked.

Do you think they cared? Not even noticed. They were floating above the cloud, not realizing where we were going or why, just enjoying being together, finally together all the time. It seemed they did not care about the teacher either. The school did not exist for them anyway, except as a frame, a decor for their love. It was only a chance to be close, to breath the same air, to watch and absorb each other, silently, like in a trance.

That was all we knew about them. Since they didn't notice or acknowledge us, we had no motivation to spy on them either. We, too, enjoyed our freedom from school and home, and the guardianship of a young, understanding teacher who was not in our way and yet took a good care of us.

Finally, we could try all those complicated hairstyles that they would not let us have at school ("they were not appropriate for our age or the school environment"). Finally, we could dress, as we wanted, without being reminded "what is trendy, is not always in good taste." And, finally, we could go to dance,

Chaperoned by our favorite teacher, could stay till eleven at night, and then all gather in one hotel room and discuss the excitements of the day and share what the dance partners told each of us and who was the best-looking guy at the dance.

It was a pure joy to watch the silvery moon on the indigo-blue Mediterranean skies and listen to the waves gurgling over the gravel beach and splashing the walls of our hotel. Nobody was reminding us it was too late and time to go to bed. It felt good, oh so good, to know that the serenade and the guitars under our windows were meant for one (or all) of us, and to know that the next day in the streets of that small coastal town the young men would smile and call us "Signorina," just like in the Italian movies, a sure sign that only at home we were considered, and treated, as children... nowhere else! Here, we were given compliments, real compliments! We felt so mature, so feminine, and so important, in possession of some unnamed power we ourselves did not quite understand.

Sandra's and Iva's love was blooming here, too, in front of our eyes. We left them alone because we ourselves were falling in love with the natives, other tourists, everybody and everything, sincerely, strongly, seriously and forever; falling in love with the salty, hot days and sweet, intoxicating Mediterranean nights.

If there were more or less mature individuals among us before, now those differences disappeared during the field trip. We were far away from home, it was springtime, and the field trip lasted only two weeks. It was a matter of honor to fall in love and talk about it in the evening when we all crammed in one small hotel room. The bolder ones had already had a date or two, exchanged the addresses and a few awkward kisses.

But, gradually, the trip was coming to an end. One day, we made a boat trip to the small coast town Supetar on the island Brach. I remember a small harbor glittering in the blazing sun and the sea surface blooming with the white, jello-y mushroom-like flowers floating like the sea umbrellas. Our meager knowledge of the Dalmatian flora and fauna could not decipher what they were, but they gorgeously enriched the beauty of our day. The whole trip flourished with those purplish-white creatures of the sea.

The air vibrated with the heat, while we absorbed the salty-gritty air, climbing up the hill to the old cemetery, read the faded inscriptions and imagined the people who had once lived on this dream-like island.

Before we left, we took with us some of the jellyfish (we finally decided that those must have been jellyfish, what else?), but they thawed on the way back and turned into a small puddle of dirty water, that quietly evaporated. The excitement of that day and of the whole field trip dissolved, too.

We boarded the train silently and unwillingly, and returned home. The local young men never wrote. There were no serenades anymore. We had to style our hair and dress simply and appropriately. Back to our school uniforms of black satin and white collars that made us all look alike, and we hated them! Our teachers were testing us constantly, and even our home teacher changed: she kept asking us about sonnets and satire, subjunctive and plus-que-parfait, as if we had never seen her in a two-piece swim-suit swimming in the aquamarine Adriatic Sea.

More and more, the memories of the field trip faded. The trip itself appeared impossible, strange like a dream. We could have doubted that it ever took place, if it had not been for Sandra and Iva, the couple intertwined into one body, like a tree and its ivy vine, beautiful, absorbed in their trance-like reality, untouchable by everyday life and our common reality.

Now even the teachers have all noticed, there were some comments and allusions. But nothing bothered them; nothing threatened their perfect love. At least, it appeared so.

The end of the school year came fast. They both passed somehow, although with difficulty. There were some failing grades threatening till the very end. After the school was out, Iva went home to the country,

Sandra to a summer camp. Housing the high school students from the greater city area, the camp was situated in the heart of the lush green, hilly Serbia. Its orchards, meadows, and pretty streams were new different scenery from our city of Novi Sad, situated on the banks of the river Danube in the flat Voivodina.

All day long I spent with Marko. We raced through the meadows and hiked over the hills. He drew pictures of the landscapes for me, and I taught him to dance in the evenings. The fireflies twinkled around us, and he caught and placed them in my hair for a sparkling, live diadem. The quiet mountain nights were filled with the crickets' chirping and the distant dog barking. Life had so much beauty and excitement in store for me!

Sandra did not dance much. She stood there with Vesa. That young man, for some reason, gave me the creeps. He reminded me of a snail, dragging himself slowly, not really walking, always sneezing, snuffling and snorting. , his nose constantly dripping from colds, allergies, or any other existing, wet condition. Known for his fine, extremely high-pitched tenor, like a woman's soprano, he had been performing publicly in the school environment and acting as if he already were on the permanent staff of the famous Milano's Operahouse La Scala. In him, even a talent was repulsive.

By the time we were returning from the summer camp, Vesa and Sandra were known to be "going steady". I was stunned, like everybody else, and could not bring myself to approach Sandra with a simple question:

"How can you? After Iva? Are you normal?"

Back in the classroom that senior year everything seemed the same. Well, almost. When the teacher called Sandra's name, Iva was worried and tried to help by whispering the correct answer. When his name was called, Sandra would turn to me, quickly ask for the answer and whisper it to him. However, after school, in the evening, downtown, where young people walked through the traffic-less "corso," Sandra was with Vesa and Iva with an attractive ballerina. Strangely, they still watched each other's every move, inhaling each other's presence like an intoxicating nectar, just as before.

Only now, they did it secretly, faking indifference.

One day, in the class, one of our classmates, a skinny, nervous creature, said something demeaning about Sandra, hoping to earn Iva's approval and comradeship. He miscalculated it. Before there was time for Iva to think, he hit the boy, who just prostrated himself before Iva's feet. It was pathetic. Iva, who was one of those strong men who hate their own strength and try not to crush everything around them, helped the boy get up, clean off, then earnestly apologized. The boy was only too happy to accept it and everything was soon forgotten. However, we realized something after that. The question "Why, then?" Stayed with us.

The time has passed and we graduated. Everybody was enrolling at different colleges. Iva left for the University of Belgrade. That was my choice too. One day, Sandra came to my home and quietly said:

"I am getting married."

I was so astounded that, without thinking, I blurted out, disappointed:

"Why, Sandra, for God's sake? Do you have to?" Not to go to college for me was unimaginable "pits," a punishment nobody deserved. It did not occur to me that having three daughters "Steve the Carpenter" might not have been able to provide college education for the youngest one. She never enjoyed school either. Her oldest sister, Vera, was already working; the middle one was in teacher's college.

Sandra smiled her intriguing smile and said: "I want to. I want to marry Stevan."

In the overall excitement of everybody enrolling and leaving for college, her wedding passed unattended. She made it a quiet, family affair.



A couple of years have passed and several of us friends, now students at different schools of the University of Belgrade, have gathered to go visit Sandra. She had recently moved to Belgrade and we acquired her address and the telephone number. We did not, purposefully, call in advance.

When she opened the door, the shock was mutual and complete. She did not expect to see us, and her beautiful eyes grew wide, in surprise. We, on the other hand, could hardly recognize the young woman she had turned into. A bit more rounded, her skin fair and without teenage imperfections. Everything was a still curve with Sandra, but even more feminine and seductive now. She was also more talkative and self-confident, and -- again -- more mature than the rest of us, still students, still going to school.

Real life somehow was still delayed for us.

Showing us into the living room that spelled fine taste and reasonable wealth, she was still fixing her hair nervously, like before. Her hair needed fixing less than ever: perfectly styled, shiny and healthy looking, just like the rest of her. She served home made cake and fruit juices, then we sat and chatted, reminding each other about some "horror" moments in our school days. We mentioned our field trip to Dalmatia, too. Sandra asked about other friends, including Iva, but there was no particular interest shown. It was like from a great distance, from another dimension.

Her little daughter came in and, shyly but gracefully, greeted us all. Then she left to play. Sandra talked about her husband, a director of a business firm, and her own work in the public library. It was a new, different Sandra. A quietly happy woman.

Much later, when I was married too, and we became very close again, she told me what I wanted to know for so long.

"Yes, of course I am happily married. I wanted to marry Stevan from the moment I met him. Not for a second have I ever had doubts since." She was telling me smiling.

"I can see that, but... but..."

"Oh, I know what you want to say. You want to ask about Iva. I must tell you, I never saw that relationship the way you have. Remember, you showed me the story you'd written about our field trip... You could never finish it, you said. It was a beautiful story, Mira, but it was your story, not mine.

You are such a romantic, a poet, whatever. I am not. I have never been. You know what a nightmare school had always been for me. I don't have the way with words as you do. You make stories. I just live the life as it is. Mira, you have always seen life differently from other people."

This is my quiet Sandra. She knows me better than I know myself. "Now, what are you saying? Are you telling me you have never loved Iva? Could I have made up the whole thing? I don't understand."

"What I'm saying is: those were childish games, teenage dating. I didn't even know what love was.

I thought I did, of course. That year, at the summer camp, I never received a single letter from Iva. Naturally, I felt hurt and revengeful. I "adopted" Vesa just to show I didn't care. In fact, I detested him. On the other hand, Iva told me later, much later, he had written to me every day but never received a reply. He was hurt and thought I never really loved him. Seeing that worm of a man with me, after the camp, he felt betrayed, disappointed in me. It really killed it all. As you know, he dated some gorgeous ballerinas and such, so I thought he didn't find me attractive enough. We never talked about it and never knew what the other felt. We were either too shy and insecure, or too proud, I don't know. Probably all the above."

"My God! This is like a comedy of errors, except that it must have felt more like a tragedy at the time.

I am sorry. I was sorry then, too. You were like Romeo and Juliet, and I wanted it to last. The rest of the class felt the same way."

"Here you go again, Mira. You are an incurable romantic. The rest of the class did not care, believe me. They just enjoyed the gossip and always assumed more than there had been. I was pretty sick of that."

"I'm sorry. To me, your love added so much beauty to our school days. I'll never forget it."

"Because you are still a dreamer. You have never dated yourself, so you see it in glorified terms."

She was right again. She may have copied my assignments and homework, she may have been a poor student compared to me, but I will never pass life tests as successfully as Sandra.

"Well, what about marriage? Do I see marriage in glorified terms, too, or do we both agree on that?"

"Mira, Stevan is the best thing that has ever happened to me. My life at home was not easy. My life at school, as you know, was a nightmare. Even now, I dream about it and wake up sweaty and in fear. With Stevan, life is simple and good. I am in charge of our home and he is always supportive, no matter what. He is in charge of the life outside our home, and I support him in that. Everything works fine. Life is good. Stevan, and our marriage, has changed my life, has changed me."

"I can see that. That is true. I am happy for you. You deserve it."

"You probably want to know the end to the 'Iva story' - right?"

"I have patiently waited for years. And patience is not one of my strengths." I smiled, lovingly. Sandra has always understood me better than anyone else, and loved me just as I am. She is almost like my mother. She always cooks my favorite food and makes me eat more than I need.

"There is not much to tell. I dropped Vesa soon after the summer camp. I had always been physically repelled by him. Iva dated around, but always looked at me in a special way. I didn't know what to think. Neither of us initiated confrontation. It hurt, but after a while, it didn't matter anymore. I met Stevan and knew right away that I wanted to spend my life with him. Iva left for Belgrade to go to college. We met by chance once, much later, and cleared the old misunderstanding. I was happy to hear he was about to get married, he seemed sincerely satisfied that I was happy in my marriage. Maybe Iva was a bit more romantic than I, just like you." Laughingly, she added:" I never told him that Vesa had stolen all his letters coming to me in the camp, in his lame attempt to keep me for himself. The creep that he was, he actually helped me on my way to Stevan. Indirectly and unwillingly, of course. " She laughed heartily, sincerely amused.

Listening to Sandra, I thought how her understanding of life makes it simple and devoid of big passions that my romantic nature tended to find in it. I realized how much I needed to learn from her.

Misha, my husband, always loved Sandra and Stevan more than other friends I brought in "as my dowry." May be because he understood life in simple terms, too. He appreciated the fact that Sandra was a good cook; always ready to please her husband. Stevan was the head of the household whose decisions were respected. On the other hand, Stevan jokingly emphasized that she was in charge and his rank was lower than his (a major versus a colonel, he would call it). One of his favorite "complaints" to Misha was that -- if he married her -- Sandra had promised, she would cook and bake every day, and would bear him three children. She cooks and bakes magnificently, we were the witnesses, but they still have only one child. He reminded her that she had "hooked him" on false promises and he wanted them delivered. We would all laugh, knowing the other side of the story: waiting for Sandra's parents to decide about his proposal, Stevan burnt his lips and fingers chain-smoking. He had used all his persuasiveness with her parents to succeed, but feared that the difference in age may disqualify him. Obviously, everything was resolved to the mutual satisfaction and nobody ever regretted the decision.



Years of close friendship between me and Sandra, and our husbands, have passed. When my husband was dying of brain cancer, nobody visited him so faithfully as Stevan and Sandra. Nobody showed more love and compassion when I lost him. More than ever before, Sandra was insisting on my staying with them and eating the food she prepared whenever I came from America, where my home has been since then.

Soon, Stevan too died of lung cancer. Both widows, we still are the closest friends. Sandra lives in Belgrade, alone with her memories. I am in America, alone with mine. Between us are the vast Atlantic Ocean and so many happy, shared memories.

Memoirs and Short Stories
HIS LOVE - HER LOVE
Just a sketch

"Why have I never married?" He was trying to explain to me. "Ah, why. What do you know, young as you are, what marriage is? What is a wedding for you? A church ceremony? There is much, much more to marriage, with or without a wedding ceremony.

After many years, I've met her again. Yes, her: the only woman I've loved, the woman that had loved me, too. I saw her at a store. She was with her husband and two children. Her glance was enough for me. No words, no smile. Not even a glance was it, just a faint blushing and a vibration like the quivering of the aspen leaves. Just for me, because of me. Ah, you don't know... You cannot know what I'm talking about. You can't understand.

You know, only the first man is really important in woman's life. She never forgets him. Only to him she stays tied by secret, invisible and unbreakable ties. To him only she is faithful. So, when I saw her again, after all those years, nothing was changed. Just a brief glance of recognition was sufficient. No. No. This was not remembering, for there hasn't been any forgetting and there never will be. All the past came back, present and alive, at that moment, and we were one again.

That man by her side, her husband, so secure, so content, was a part of another world. He had nothing to do with us. How chaste and soft her shy smile was, the smile I know so well. And her beautiful, doe-like, caressing eyes.

She passed, went away and the air behind her was warm and turbulent, excited like myself. She is gone, my bride, my love. She has brushed me with her sad glance, as if touching me secretly. One more yellow leaf fell upon my head."



After this, I felt compelled to talk to her, to tell her how much she is still loved, although married to another man. She responded readily:

"I don't know what you are talking about, or who. The man from the store? What about him? I used to know him, long time ago. He said he still loved me? Back then, he never said that. I figured it out, of course. Everybody knew it, but he never had the guts to tell me. He is a strange guy. Forget him. He is talking marriage now? Where was he then? I was single. He never said any of those things then. What does he know about marriage? He is not married yet. Never will be, you can trust me. Of course I married another man. What was I supposed to wait for? And how long?

As for that stupid, sentimental story about the first man in woman's life... somebody has got to be the first. There is nothing in it so memorable. I remember him only because he was so strange, poor guy.

But why are you dwelling in the past? Let's go have a drink and enjoy the present!"

Memoirs and Short Stories
AFTER THE PARTY

I am having guests tonight. Not close friends, just acquaintances: a social obligation.

The rooms look pretty with floral arrangements and dimmed lights. My best hand-embroidered tablecloth that my mother gave me, matches the dishes, the silverware, and the crystal. Creating a beautiful environment is a joy, even when I am not certain that it will be appreciated. I smile, knowing my guests are going to watch everything closely and criticize later. To me, everything looks "comme il faut," in perfect order.

Guests are arriving, dressed for the occasion. Zora is in her Oriental mood. She is wearing a green brocade gown with little black pagodas, a geisha hairstyle, and a sweet and heavy Oriental perfume. Her husband, Darko, is in an expensive raw-silk suit, the shade of the Sahara sand, with a matching tie. Now, he is sitting quietly, from time to time wiping his face and hands with a white satin handkerchief.

Dana and Marko arrive next, wearing subdued, matching colors. That brings in a promise of harmony. After the aperitifs and conversation on the world politics, the dinner is served. The usual a-a-hs, and o-o-hs mark the arrival of each dish, like the announcements of the noble guests at the Russian Court.

Then, all is quiet. An occasional slurp, muffled into a cough, and jingling of the silverware is all one can hear apart from the soft Chopin's music coming discreetly from the other room. Everybody is busy eating. Next, the dinner is finished and the dessert served. The conversation is growing more animated after a white Riesling is replaced with a bottle of red Merlot. The topics now skip from politics to power, from economics to money, and finally settle with the intrigue.

"Oh, he is a brute, if there is one," Zora is saying about somebody whose name I missed while bringing an ashtray from the other room. "His wife is dense: she cannot dress with taste. Wake up, woman, I feel like telling her: this is the seventies. She still lives in the fifties or...whatever."

"She may be dense, if you will," Dana joins in, "but she enjoys life to its fullest, and that's more than some of us can say. Have you seen her lately with that huge diplomat in a white Cadillac? If she doesn't excel in dressing, maybe she is better in undressing?"

"You mean the ambassador of Panama? One can't miss to see him, gargantuan as he is. I don't see how he can fit into any car. Oh...just imagine him in bed. So now those two are having a fling? I didn't know that," Dana's voice raises almost to a scream. After all, she is usually the first to know.

"It has to be a mistake," Darko tries, softly, to intervene, lighting a cigarette. "He has a girlfriend. You all know her: she is a very attractive model."

"That doesn't mean anything. He's had so many girlfriends, I cannot keep up anymore," retorts Zora readily, not at all disturbed in her omniscience. "He's announced his engagements to somebody lately, but I'm not paying attention anymore. He won't marry anyone, if you ask me. Why would he? He can have them all, anyway."

"Why? He is not attractive or anything, "Dana interrupts. "Oh, you mean money speaks. Of course. Do you think he does any serious work? What does Yugoslavia need from Panama? Hats? They are outmoded." She adds, shrugging and opening wide her angelic blue eyes.

"I've just remembered. I'll take my word back. Yes, he would marry one woman, I believe. In fact, I know for sure he would." Zora is meaningfully nodding her head, her thin, penciled eyebrows arching emphatically.

"Who is it? Who is it?" Dana jumps impatiently.

"Nina, of course. Not that I can see any valid reason for that." Zora volunteers, her mouth drooping downward like in children's drawing of a sad face. She seems tired and disgusted with the world when she adds: "I don't even want to talk about that slut... oh, pardon me, for calling her the only appropriate name. I'm so tired of her cheap, dirty tricks."

"Cheap or not, they seem to work. With men, at least. She gets promoted, you don't." And Dana smiles her brilliant movie-star smile, just to make sure it's clear: she is only kidding, not aiming to be offensive.

"It's because men are stupid. I would never do what she does." Zora slashes back, not quite sure whether Dana was being smart or stupid, sly or sincere. Then, deciding to play it cool, for now, she adds: "Everybody knows: that woman changes men more often than her underwear. Yet, they don't seem to mind that. She gets promotions quite regularly, I know. But, how do you call that? And, would you do what she does?" She speaks slowly and pointedly, explaining each word, waiting for it to sink in, in case poor Zora cannot comprehend, her IQ obviously lower than her income.

"I don't see anything in her, myself," Dana decides to be supportive. "Do you find her attractive? Smart? I don't. Then, there is only one explanation left for her success." And she leans back in her chair and looks around expecting affirmation of her logical thinking.

"Now wait a minute," Marko tries to smooth the edges. "Nina is both attractive and smart. She deserves all the popularity she has as a hard working professional. I don't know anything about those other things you are discussing here. How can you even know such intimate details or be sure that they are not just a bunch of gossip? Why, just the other day..." But his sentence was not destined to be completed.

"You are dropping the cigarette ashes on your trousers again," Dana announces loudly and immediately turns to me, "By the way, that is a lovely design of an ashtray. Where did you get it?" This, however, with a milder, quite sweet, intonation.

After that the conversation turns to concerts and art exhibits. Darko mentions the name of the prominent conductor, Djordje Mihailovich, and his last, brilliant performance at the Kolarchev University.

"Is it true he has cancer?" Zora wants to know. "Such an attractive man. Is he divorced yet?"

Yes, he has cancer. And no, he is not divorced yet. Instead of answering, I stop listening. My thoughts sink into a deeper, darker realm of quiet solitude, safely protected from the malicious curiosity of my guests. My heart joins the lonely man, known for creating beauty and sharing it with others, while discreetly going through a drama in his private life.

Silence. Deep silence in me. There, on the surface, they still talk about music and theater, sex and intrigues... talk... talk... talk... And after they have eaten all there is to eat, drunk all there is to drink, slandered all who are not here to hear and protect themselves, they realize how late it is, so they must go because I need to rest after all the work that I have done. They compliment me on everything and leave in a hurry.

Finally alone, I do not go to bed immediately. I wash the dishes and the ashtrays, open all the windows in need to clean everything: every little bit, including the air. After that, I take a long, thorough bath. I am going through the movements routinely, without thinking, my spirit absent from my body. When I finally go to bed, I do not think, as I usually do, whether the evening has been successful or not. In the dark bedroom, alone with my thoughts, I cannot fall asleep.

The night is beautiful and serene. Outside, the skies are vast and velvety. The stars whisper softly and the neighboring woods breathe a gentle scent of cool freshness. The city in the distance is asleep. Only the lights glitter.

I know, I am not alone and the evening is not a waste. In spite of some ugliness, in spite of pain, life is worth living.

Memoirs and Short Stories
LIGHT AND SHADOW

The alarm clock rang insistently, chopping her dreams. Lydia awoke, slowly remembering: she had to wake up Nikola, to take his brother to the airport for an early plane home. She and Nikola had been married for three months now and this was the first time she ever met his only brother, because he had been in the Navy at the time of their wedding.

Nikola had often talked about his younger brother, though. "Milan is a dreamer, if I ever knew one. We don't have anybody like him in our family." I wish you were a dreamer, too -- Lydia thought but said nothing. "He used to write poetry all the time while we were at school. He'd use any paper he could get hold of, but he never kept those poems, nor cared to publish them. He could've made some money if he had. But, Milan doesn't care about money, either." You, on the other hand -- Lydia thought -- value it more than it deserves. As if hearing her thoughts, Nick went on, "He always was impractical, even when we were children. Always cared for moonshine and fiddlesticks rather than practical, real life.

You'd be astounded how many long poems he knows by heart: Shakespeare and such. But, we will have to see yet how he will earn a living."

"It seems, I should've married him," Lydia snapped. Nikola laughed as if it were the best joke he had ever heard. He even proudly retold it to some friends. Lydia was exasperated: she didn't see what he was proud of. She certainly didn't pay him a compliment.

But, that's him. He never really understood her anyway.

She loved poetry, too, cried in the movies, and was rather careless with money. "Somebody needs to make a living and save for the rainy day," Nikola would usually say in his serious, reasonable way.

And that would be the end of the conversation. But she hated it all, more and more: his serious, boring ways, his rationalization of everything.

When she first saw her brother-in-law at the door, the other day, smiling as if he had a beautiful secret that he may share with the world any minute, something hit her powerfully right in the middle of her chest. He was so attractive, so lovable. She felt comfortable with him right from the start. In fact, she felt closer to him than to the man she had married.

Now, as she was putting on her dressing gown and searching for her slippers under the bed, she watched her husband at that ungodly hour. On his back (he always slept on his back; that's why he always snored, she was sure.) He had that strangely benign expression on his face, even in his sleep, the look of a man with a clean conscience. She hated it. "Boring, dull, predictable," she whispered to herself, still unable to find the slipper.

Finally, she got up dispirited, hit the chair (that he must have stupidly left in the middle of the room) and tiptoed to the guest bedroom. That room, like their bedroom, was lit by the flashing hotel signs across the street, off and on, off and on. For a moment, she watched her brother-in-law's sleeping face lit by the red lights, then darkened, then lit again adding some secret, new expression to his face...

He must have been too warm, because all the sheets and covers were on the floor in a mess, his pajamas unbuttoned, disclosing his hairy chest evenly rising in deep sleep. His curly hair was a mess, giving him an innocent, vulnerable look. She craved to caress him like a lost child, and only dared to touch his hair, gently, very gently. He moved in his sleep, and she blushed deeply, quickly leaving the room, like a thief.

Back in the bedroom, her husband was still asleep, now turned on the side. She shook him vigorously, "Wake up. Didn't you hear the alarm clock?" -- Then she went out to the balcony.

Outside, the night was peaceful and starry. Just an ordinary night. Perhaps, out there, in the far-off horizon, the storm was rising.

Memoirs and Short Stories
THE SILVER PIN

"What are you baking, Jelena? It smells awfully good," Bora called from the bedroom to the kitchen, knowing how, after almost twenty years of marriage, his wife still blushed at his compliments about her cooking. She deserved every bit of credit for more than good cooking.

Bora usually griped against entertaining, while he actually loved it. Jelena did all the work in preparing her memorable delicious feasts, while he was in charge of the intellectual nourishment. Nothing to prepare, just be his charming self, the center, and the success of all the gatherings. Their friends were interesting people: writers, artists, successful businessmen, in their prime age and that fascinating era after the World War II in Belgrade, Yugoslavia.

Since the morning he has been feeling great, getting him ready for the guests, whistling "La Donna e Mobile" and "Carmen" while Jelena busily clanged in the kitchen and the enticing aroma of the freshly baked fruitcake floated in the air, spreading through the house. Standing in front of the antique Venetian mirror, Bora fixed a silver pin to his tie. The pin was a gift from Vera. Smiling with satisfaction, he remembered that eventful, memorable year and Vera, with her big, dark eyes; wild, curly hair, and only eighteen years of life in her perfect, succulent body. His already counted full forty-two including the WW II and its hardships, some close encounters with death, and -- yes -- the memories of other women, too. Many forgotten, of course, but some still present in the memory of his bloodstream. Jelena, his wife, not to be lightly passed over. The formidable green-eyed siren powerful pilot in their turbulent, far from easy life together. Always a winner, that woman. Bora often felt awe close to fear of his wife. He had married her not out of love, but that owe and respect. Different from any other woman, with a mystique he never quite figured out, Jelena saved his life during the war, with a kind of wisdom only a woman possesses. Maybe it is love, the attachment that he feels for her now, after all those years together; not love-passion that Vera inspired, but a bond strong, too strong to break. No woman has ever been so elusive like Jelena. He often wondered how much she knew or sensed of his escapades with other women. From a wild kitten, she turned into a strong, protective wife and a perfect mother. Always full of understanding. No questions asked. It was still unclear, however, whether she understood that he couldn't miss any new experience life offered, or whether she were too innocent and faithful herself to understand his needs. Marriage is a secret, hard to explain, Bora concluded with a sigh.

As a contrast to Jelena, Vera, young and inexperienced, was outspoken and direct: "You are selfish and unfair," she accused him at the peak of their love-hate affair. Sweet addiction it was for Bora. Vera, that thoroughbred, loved him almost too much, with the thirst of the first, newly discovered passion. After a year of bliss, the tension grew and erupted in uneven intervals, like a volcano constantly churning inside. A considerable difference in age, Bora's marriage and other complexities turned that into a bittersweet affair. Vera's youth and temperament required complete freedom in a love relationship, Bora's marriage, however, had to be observed, after all. He and Vera actually spent plenty of time together: Bora's business trips and long meetings covering amply for it all. Vera even went with him whenever possible. It still was not enough for her. Out of the blue, in the middle of the greatest happiness, she would start shaking her chains, revolting against her position worse than that of a kept woman (as she complained). Like a wolf with a leg caught in a trap, she was capable of chewing off her own leg to obtain freedom. But, over and over again, she would break with Bora, then come back, defeated. Oh, how sweet those victories were for him, how sweet.

Yes, he was selfish, as she had said, but she would have been too, if she were over twenty years older and knowing life as he had. Sure he was jealous of her colleagues, hating the thought of her sitting in a small room studying for hours with an eighteen or nineteen-old buck. To make things worse, the young buck usually looked like a model: wide shoulders and curly hair. A real Billy Budd. Bora hated wide shoulders and curly hair. In other men, that is, especially young men. His own waistline was gradually disappearing , the shoulders still broad, but the muscle not taut as when he had actively played sports and made love instead of passively sitting in the office making money.

Studying together! His imagination readily supplied a scene from his own experience with a colleague. He could imagine Vera and that Billy Budd, during the breaks, chatting, laughing, probably kissing... If they have not discovered it yet, they soon would.

"I know what studying together is like," he said to Vera, while his thoughts re-visited his senior year in high school, when he had "studied" with Irma, a wild Hungarian classmate. She had had a low grade in mathematics and he promised to help her catch up. Bless her hot writhing body, Bora lulled on the waves of pleasant memories, we had never found time for math. He sighed deeply. Irma! Where is she now? Probably long married and tamed, a plump mother of several kids. The memory of Irma's limitless curiosity and inventiveness brought a broad smile on his face.

"Why can't you study with a girl-friend?" Bora often asked. What had irritated him the most was the thought that Vera would, unavoidably, compare him to those hunks, and it would not be in his favor. The feeling of helplessness was not something he could take. He too had moments of love-hate, just like Vera, and he too was addicted. It is easy to get addicted to a good thing!

Yes, he knew what was inevitable. Sooner or later, Vera would find a younger man. It is natural. It always ends that way. Considerably older and married, what could he expect? If their relationship could not last forever, at least he wanted it to last as long as possible. And so, they would argue and fight each time she met a new young man in class, borrowed a textbook, or even mentioned anyone.

That particular time, the time of the silver pin, had been different, Bora remembered. During the argument, Vera sounded annoyed, almost like tired of it all.

"What do you want?" She asked calmly. "I am only studying with Djoka. And how about you? Just think about it for a moment. I have to put up with much more. Djoka is only a friend, less than that. I am human. I need friends for the times when you are happily at home with your wife. You have friends, too. Djoka is engaged to a girl in his hometown. They will get married when he graduates. You should understand the part about marriage. It is a strong bond. Right?"

"Djoka? Who is Djoka now? A new one, of course. His name sounds quite appropriate, too. I see. 'A fiancee in his home town' usually doesn't make much difference. Many babies were born as a result of studying together," Bora finished, venom dripping from his voice.

After plenty of shouting (on his part) and some crying (on hers), they parted. Like before. Bora did not like it at all. She had always come back, true, but just one time she may not. Women are dangerous when mad. To make things worse, Vera's parents lived in another city and she had a tiny apartment close to campus. Plenty of freedom and privacy. There was only a big bed in her room, a small desk with a chair, and a wardrobe. Vera added plants, but the room was furnished for two purposes only, as Bora saw it.

Time was passing. Neither Vera nor Bora called. Two prides testing each other. The days lingered dull and uneventful. Every morning, before work, and every night, going home, Bora hoped Vera would be waiting for him as she had done before. But, no. Each time his telephone rang in the office, he jumped: Vera, but it never was her young, singing voice. He started acting like a teenager, sitting near the telephone, waiting. It infuriated him. But, that girl had been the only source of excitement he had in life. She was young and mature, playful and serious, coquettish and faithful, unpredictable yet dependable. There would be nothing else meaningful anymore, if she were gone. She had brought excitement and freshness, new inspiration and meaning to his life.

He remembered how, at the beginning, while their relationship had been growing, everything had turned restless and empty without her, but majestically peaceful and rich while they were together. That is when he even considered a divorce. But, no. Jelena would not settle for that and there was no telling whether it would last with Vera. She could drop him for a younger man even if they were married. In ten or twenty years she would be even more dangerous: a woman in her thirties with a man in his fifties? Oh, no.

Bora knew better. Even now, arguments with Vera had a regular pattern: each time he took a vacation with his family, each time he was seen with Jelena in public. Whether she knew it or not, Vera wanted marriage. Women always do.

"Vera, dearest, you don't know what marriage is like. You think it's a romance. But you'll be married one day. Then you will know better. Enjoy what we have now: true love. Not all marriages are based on love and definitely not on passion. You have the best of me. There is nothing left for Jelena. She and I don't even talk anymore. If we do, that is usually about the bills and home repairs. Wait till you get married, you will know then." Bora sounded tired and sincere.

Vera told him how she had felt, given time to think -- a young woman tied to a married man -- lonely, used, wasted and abandoned. She often cried from humiliation and hopelessness. She told him, if there was no future in their relationship, she was going to do her best to forget him. Usually, that meant hasty relationships, dating around, and coming back like a dog with the tail between the legs, defeated.

"I cannot do that. I love you too much. Those boys are so boring. All they talk about is tests and sports. They don't understand me. I miss you. I love you. Only you." And she would look at him with her big, doe-like eyes, full of devotion and guilt.

At the same time, she was not telling him that she was afraid she would never be able to love anyone, and no young man of her age could love her, knowing her past. She had tried to break loose from that liaison dangereouse with no success. Nobody could help her anymore, and she was too weak for the necessary amputation.

Bora knew Vera was sincere, yet he knew, too, that these swings of mood were dangerous. She may find someone who would not appear boring. An acquaintance can easily become a lover; a lover can become a husband. Everything is easy at that age.

"How much do you think I miss you? I don't have anything in life but you, you just don't see it. That is because you idealize marriage. You don't know how irritable and grouchy I am with Jelena when you abandon me. I wish you could ask her. I hate every minute I spend at home." And, in a way, that was true, too.

Their getting together after those separations was a real feast. He would take her to the ice cream parlor to splurge, laughing like children. Or, she would buy a new dress, just for him, change a hairstyle, and come to his office to show him. Then, they would go celebrate. They would celebrate all her tests, too. And, they would make love thirstily, tenderly, and more passionately than ever.

Gradually, unnoticed, the relationship had corroded, like the river doomed to eat its own banks to extinction. Bora knew all along: time was not his ally. He had been Vera's first love, the first man in her life. He knew the power and his advantages over those tenderfeet: he was a mature, experienced, still attractive man. Women had always loved him. He knew them and could easily please them. With Vera it was different.

He was fully absorbed and just as vulnerable as she. His experience was of no use and he did not want to use it. He was attached to that young woman desperately, with his last flame, as he liked to tell her. The time was running out for him and he enjoyed every minute of that life's unexpected gift. He tried to be fair and let her have other friends; he even believed that he wanted her to get married happily. But, there was time for her. She should not get married too early anyway. There was plenty of time for her, not for him, though. Those young hunks made him aware of his wrinkles and the expanding waistline.

Their last argument had been different than the previous ones. The separation grew longer. He was seriously worried. What if this really was the end? They both gambled, weighing the opponent's weakness.

And then, he had to leave for an international seminar abroad. He hated to go away like that. He wrote to Vera constantly, impatient to return. Somehow, he always believed that she was going to find someone while he was abroad. His letters and postcards were not answered, and it felt like a nightmare: calling for help in a vacuum, like a telephone ringing in an empty room.

What was Vera doing all this time?

A brief, warm spring shower surprised the people walking on the streets of Belgrade. Washed by rain, the lilacs in bloom exuded a stronger, more intoxicating scent and the air vibrated with electricity. Vera ran to take a shelter in a doorway of a cafe, when a man's voice and a light touch on her shoulder stopped her.

"May I offer you an umbrella, or would you rather have my heart?" A tall, dark-eyed young man was saying, extending his umbrella over her. His eyes were smiling, as warm as his deep, sonorous voice.

"Oh, Voya, what a good timing! I would hate to get soaked in my new blouse," Vera exclaimed, blushing from surprise, while Voya's eyes embraced her budding bust wrapped in the soft silky material, already clinging to her dewy skin.

"Good to see you again, Vera. I love spring showers," he added meaningfully. They had met, recently, at a mutual friend's birthday party and spent the whole evening talking, Voya was a young doctor, just about to leave for his internship in another city. He appeared more serious and mature than other young men Vera knew; yet he was fun to talk to. After a long, inspiring conversation touching upon literature, music, art, philosophy and more, Voya told her he regretted having to leave now that they had just met.

That statement touched her. His eyes were serious but warm, almost caressing, and she felt it was more than just a compliment. "Why don't we go sit in this little cafe," he was saying now. The rain was getting heavier every minute.

"We can have a lemonade, piece of cake, and a nice chat. This shower won't last long. Spring showers never do," and he smiled in his special way that always enriched the meaning of the simple statements.

"I'd enjoyed our conversation at Zora's party very much. In fact, I've been thinking about you and I'm grateful to the rain gods for this unexpected gift before my departure."

And they entered the cafe already engrossed in animated conversation, laughing together like old friends. Soon, they exchanged telephone numbers and Voya called her the next day. They visited an art exhibit together.

Everything was so natural, simple, and meaningful with Voya. Vera has never felt that way with any other man. He was like a big brother, a friend, protective and respectful, yet they both felt the same excitement, the same warm flame enveloping them, even radiating to the world around. And they talked, talked, talked, and having so much to say to each other. Till she met Voya, Vera only knew the roller-coaster love-hatred relationship with Bora or a complete boredom and awkwardness with the young men of her age.

She doubted she would ever be able to love anyone like she loved Bora, yet the relationship was destroying her with the feeling of shame and guilt. She knew it would kill her parents if they knew. They could never be happy if she married Bora. It was an inappropriate match, "stealing a man from his wife," as her parents called similar relationships. She wanted desperately to break out of the whole mess before it was too late, but -- like a bird batting against the walls of her small cage -- she never found an opening for escape. Maybe it was already too late, she feared. She knew she needed help to free herself from the invisible but powerful entanglement of her secret affair. Looking at Voya's clean-cut, honest face, she almost yearned to tell him the truth, to ask for help, to let him into her lonely, secret space she dared not share with anyone. But he looked so innocent, so far from her "other life," and she felt so old and sick of an illness hard to share. No, she respected him too much. He was going to leave soon and this would stay just a beautiful memory, just a glimpse of something she might have had if she were not already hopelessly entangled and lost..

And then, on the morning of Voya's departure, without previously planning it, she decided on the spur of the moment to go see him off. From a distance only, without his knowing it. She rushed frantically to the airport, almost getting into an accident. And she got there just to see him look hopelessly around himself, as if expecting something against all odds, before entering the departure gate. Spotting her, his face lit happily.

Spontaneously, he dropped his carry-on beg and rushed to her. They embraced, without a word, for what seemed a timeless eternity. Then, she looked at him, her big eyes trying to tell him all she never told anyone ... He looked at her with a long, serious look, smiled as if understanding it all, and - was gone.

Impatient to come back from the trip, Bora hurried to his office to check the mail and the messages. No phone messages of any importance except the usual business, but there was a little packet with Vera's pretty handwriting. He ripped it open, to find a box with a silver pin in it. His face lit with happiness.

The attached letter changed his mood. "Dear, very dear Bora. I beseech you as an honest man to prove your love now. If I ever meant anything to you, please do not try to see me or contact me in any way. Please help me. I cannot go on like this anymore. This is killing me. Maybe, later, we will be able to get together and talk like good, old friends. Keep the good memory intact. Love, Vera."

Almost ten years later, he can still remember the pain, the anguish. There were days when he wanted just to see her, just to talk to her. But, he did not do that. He started smoking, became a nervous wreck. Jelena and his co-workers noticed. They told him they had never known him like that. They worried for his health. He went into depression for a long time, even got some counseling. But he made a deal with himself: he was not going to do Vera any harm. He had so much to be grateful for. And Jelena, his green-eyed siren, saved his life again with patience, love and courage. He often wondered how much she knew or suspected. Never a word asked. He had married the right woman, no doubt.

For years he could not bear to look at the silver pin, not to mention wear it. One day, when he fastened it on his tie, he knew he was cured. He was going to live! It has been his favorite since.

While Bora was busy getting dressed, Jelena had arranged all the dishes and silverware she was going to need for the traditional Serbian "gibanitsa," (cheese pastry), ayvar (baked green pepper salad), platter with hors-d'oeuvres: meats, cheeses, deviled eggs and various salads. She took out her mother's "supentoff" (tureen) for the veal pottage and some Herrend platters for the cake and other desserts. After that, she rushed to get dressed. Like always, the doorbell announced the first guests, before she could finish. Bora could answer the door; he has been getting ready since the morning. But, he won't. He will expect her to do that. Smiling, she ran to open the door, checking in one glance if everything was in perfect order.

"Oh, Dora, how good to see you. Come on in, take your coat off," and she helped her with the heavy fur coat. "Bora will be here in a minute," and ushering her guest into the living room, she offered her a seat on the comfortably cushioned antique sofa. Bora entered, bringing in a breeze of the herby scent of his Old Spice aftershave. After greeting Dora, they immediately slipped into an engaging conversation.

Jelena knew she could, quite unnoticed, leave for the kitchen for some final touches before the other guests arrived.

Dora had been their friend for over ten years, more Bora's than Jelena's that is. Tall, domineering woman with demanding manners, more feared than loved, she had conveniently married a young promising man with connections through his parents, members of the old, decent bourgeoisie, as well as with his own young, politically correct, upward climbing generation. The match never looked quite right, especially when she, a cold, shrewd woman, insisted on acting romantic, even inappropriately passionate in public. As a matter of fact, only in public, Jelena's instinct was telling her. And she imagined large and awkward Dora in bed with her petit husband. The roles reversed. She had to suppress a chuckle. He was a short, sensitive, kind man; she large, cold and calculating.

No, Dora can't seduce her Bora, Jelena knew. Not that Dora wouldn't try, just to test her powers.

Dora had always claimed that all men were weaker sex. They were losers in the bedroom scene, she almost boasted. Jelena had her opinion, based on the good old folk wisdom and a sharp feminine instinct.

She also knew her Bora through and through.

"Jelena, don't leave me alone with that woman. She is dangerous. I am not kidding," Bora had told her once, a long time ago, and she only laughed. He, afraid of women. Ha-ha. That'll be the day. But, she understood quite well what he had meant and never forgot it.

When Jelena entered the living room with the aperitifs, Bora and Dora were sitting on the sofa: he was showing her his newest book of Andrew Wyeth's art. Dora's large feet in black, flat shoes, resembling men's, caught Jelena's eye. Oh, my God, she thought. Couldn't she find something more graceful and feminine to wear, especially with a taffeta skirt? And that woman hoped to seduce her husband? Those shoes are huge, larger than Dora's husband's, and larger than Bora's, for goodness sakes! Dora's husband actually had a much better taste. Not in women, though. And Jelena smiled, proud of her husband.

It is not only the taste, but also the experience that counts in choosing one's mate, she thought seriously. She looked at Bora and he returned a smile of an accomplice, while Dora flashed a smile that was meant to be ravishing. She was admiring one of her prepared and rehearsed statements directed at Bora.

Then, the rest of the guests started coming and Jelena had to concentrate on food and entertainment.

While they were busy eating, she watched them with an inner smile of satisfaction. They always devoured her food. Didn't those women cook? Their men were always hungry and sincerely appreciative of good, home cooking. That's why Jelena always made sure the men get more than plenty of food in her home. They have always been nice to her, too. Always more respectful than with other women. Even telling Bora, half-jokingly, he didn't know what he had in her and that they hoped he appreciated her fully. They would kiss her hand, leaving, while she never saw them kiss anyone else's hand.

"Please finish all the food. It is so much easier to do the dishes when there are no leftovers," she smiled pleasantly, handing the dishes around.

Her schoolmate Sidonia was eating fast, talking over her food. Fleshless, as if scorched in her virginity, with a thin line of her lips and an immaculate hairstyle, she sat upright and rigid. Why do all the spinsters sit like that, Jelena thought? Sidonia ate greedily and with nervous, staccato movements, almost shoving the food into her mouth. Then, as if embarrassed, laboriously wiped her lips with the napkin.

And why do all the spinsters devour their food? Jelena continued her train of thought. There are many explanations, of course: they don't feel like cooking for themselves only. Probably hate to eat alone. Even the animals are like that too. Bora says some people use food to substitute and compensate for the lack of love and sex. He always explains everything with sex. Men!

She was seeing her guests that night as she had never seen them before. Sidonia's eating repulsed her. She is like a bloodthirsty cannibal, Jelena shuddered at the thought. She would probably devour men with the same gluttony she ate a rare steak. Dora is even worse in her cold intellectualism devoid of any love.

What had Bora once said about Sidonia? That she appreciated people only to the extent she could eat and drink in their home? Jelena had disagreed then, out of pity, but now...

Strangely, Bora never could stand Sidonia. He would usually leave under a pretext that he had a work to finish, whenever she dropped by. He told Jelena that Sidonia had tried to seduce him once, when Jelena was out of town. Could it be true or did he make a mistake? It was not quite clear to him either, he'd said.

One can never be quite sure in such things. Sidonia had been quite attractive in her youth, with her blue eyes and long hair, stubbornly in love with Mirko, who never took her seriously. He had dated nearly everybody but her, and would share some intimate details about other women. They were close friends.

One day he just got married. That was the end of it. Sidonia stayed single and loved him stubbornly with a hate-like passion. Everybody knew. It was not a secret. She stayed a spinster, her lips turning into a thin line, her body shrinking. She was getting more and more bitter, enjoying gossiping about other people, especially married couples. People invited her to their homes, anyway, feeling sorry for her.

What had Sidonia once tried to tell her about Bora? Years ago, maybe ten or so. Not clearly, so Jelena never quite understood: like Bora may have had an affair with a young girl, a college student or something. She said she was sure it was just people's gossip and Jelena shouldn't take it seriously. She, Sidonia, was telling her that only in case somebody else mentioned it. She should be aware, although those had to be lies. Even to this day Jelena can remember how -- although it all was unclear and confused like lies always are -- the conversation left her confused and with a foul feeling in her mouth. For some time she watched Bora closely and, of course, it seemed quite true, or at least possible. Lies like that are so destructive. Could Sidonia be so envious to create those stories on purpose? Would she be capable of doing this to her best friend?

All of a sudden, Jelena felt tired, very tired. She looked at Bora and he smiled at her with pride. She knew everything was all right.

"Please, have some more cake and ice cream," she said warmly. There was no need for her to worry. There were times, however, when she felt threatened by those professional women with degrees. She dropped out of college during the second year, to marry Bora. She never seriously regretted it. From time to time, however, she felt tired of being "only a housewife." Always cleaning, cooking, washing. Those women had a more interesting life and were, probably, more respected by men. At one time she even considered going back to school, but Bora told her that their home would lack warmth and nurturing

Like those others. Always in a rush, those women had no time to be feminine enough. She believed him. There was truth in it.

Sometimes, though, she felt like Bora's servant. Especially when he acted distantly, stayed much at work and even when he was at home, he just ate, read the newspaper and disappeared into his room to read, write, or listen to music, instead of spending time with her. She felt like a piece of furniture, less than that. For a while, she was afraid there was another woman. Then she bought sexy underwear and a black, lacy nightgown, tried to be very sweet and understanding with him, cooked his favorite food... but she almost exploded after a while, when he hardly noticed any of that. She hated him for that. But, Bora is like that. He sometimes acts as if having an affair, when he is actually in love with an idea or a project. Men always need some kind of a toy in their lives. Like children, they get bored easily. But, all of that is part of marriage and they have successfully spent a good chunk of their lives together. She could not imagine any other life but the one they have had together.

Looking around at her guests, she concluded that she and Bora actually were having the best life together. She smiled at him and, as if reading her thoughts, Bora said: "Isn't my Jelena the most beautiful woman in the world?" Everybody applauded. "And the best cook, indeed."

After all, the evening had been a success.

A bit later, she was shaking hands with their guests, inviting them to come again. Then closing the door sighing a deep sigh of relief, she looked at Bora questioningly.

"To bed, to bed," said he, with a smile. "As the good old Lady Mac Beth would say," and they laughed together, headed toward their bedroom. As he started to undress, he took off his silver pin first.

HYMNE À L'AMOUR

"Another one?" asked Olga, smiling, after finding yet another card in her mail with already familiar handwriting but still unknown sender. How unusual for Belgrade, Yugoslavia of the 1970's and not some earlier, romantic age, a romance novel or movie, Olga thought. The postcards from all over the world have been coming in an irregular but steady pattern: the Dutch windmills, Austrian ski terrains, Swedish Dalarna horses, German Gothic cathedrals, fountains of Rome, even temples of India. A few lines written in an even, immaculate masculine handwriting conveyed a short, sophisticated message in English or French, never in her mother tongue, Serbo-Croatian, except for a word here or there. Who is this man, Olga (an incurable, full time romantic) has been asking herself, hoping that this subtle game was courting. She couldn't be sure whether this dream creature lived in Belgrade and traveled much, or even what his nationality was. Why did he play this game with her? If he wanted to raise her curiosity, he has succeeded.

As always, Olga was trying to read behind the words, to solve the mystery of the man who was -- to say the least -- acting in the most unusual, although subtle way, sending her messages of ever-present attention. Sometimes, around the holidays, small but appropriate gifts like Spanish castanets, Russian nesting dolls, or Belgian lace handkerchiefs would arrive. Yet, she had never seen him, he had never approached her to reveal his identity, to expect anything in return. Who was he? His signature seemed purposefully illegible, while the rest of the text was always perfect. The handwriting, the text, and the choice of the cards pointed out to a very sensitive and sophisticated man. A tactful one, too. Had she met him without knowing it? She could not be sure.

Sometimes, in a shower, she would inspect her tall, slender body that men had always admired. She felt grateful to her parents, nature, and life for the health and beauty she had inherited. Later, in bed, her last thoughts would drift to that unknown man.

"Good night, stranger," she sometimes whispered, almost sure that, wherever he was, he must be thinking of her too.

Now, fixing an earring, and looking at herself in the family mirror, she smiled. Milosh, her husband, has been ready for a while, patiently waiting in the living room and whistling softly. They were going to a reception with the foreign representatives.

Olga's has been a comfortable marriage: Milosh a tolerant husband, busy with his career. He respected and loved her, but his love was not articulate, imaginative, or exciting. He never did silly little things, never acted like a lover. Even in the bedroom they stayed two respectable people. Like her mother before her, like so many of her girl friends, Olga craved romance and passion.

There were men around her, men that had been in love with her for years, waiting for her to notice them; waiting for her to show signs of boredom, loneliness, or a moment of weakness. They were perfect friends through the years, but no one could boast of more. She did not have time for them. In her early forties, Olga has already secured a prominent position as a commercial artist, lecturer and writer. She had a twelve year daughter, too, "her masterpiece," as she often called her.

While deciding on a different pair of earrings, Olga heard Milosh jingling the car keys, by now, probably irritated. Only mildly, though. Everything about him is mild, Olga thought. "Milde Sorte," she often called him, like that German brand of cigarettes she was seeing around.

"You know, Misha, " she called to him, "I'm actually sick and tired of those receptions. There is nothing for me there. Couldn't we, for once, just stay at home or visit some friends instead?"

"Oh, Olga, you love receptions. I am the one who is really tired of it all, but I have no choice. You will be the best looking, best dressed and best loved-and-hated woman there. If I get noticed, it will be because of you. Let's go."

And he was out the door, while she, still coping with her coat and purse, switched off the lights, and rushed to catch up with him. I know someone who would at least hold my coat for me, Olga thought not really grudgingly. Thinking about her Knight in the Shining Armor has become an intimate joke, more like a game. Naturally, she had assigned to him all the qualities she wanted in a man. He had to be perfect or she didn't need him. Often, she day-dreamed about him, sometimes thought: Something must be seriously wrong, unnatural, even disgusting about my secret lover. Maybe he is a Quasimodo of some sort. Why would he stay incognito otherwise? She did not really expect to meet him, and if she did, it would have to be only a big disappointment. And she almost preferred it this way. She was all right as is. Nothing needed fixing, since nothing was broken in her life. Yet.

And now, entering the big reception hall, she smiled and quickly passed through the faces like turning the pages of a new book to see if it would be worth reading. But, the faces did not reveal anything. Like always, she and Milosh knew most of the people, especially as some were almost like a social fixture, always there. They met some new people, too, mostly among the foreign representatives. Among them was that tall, slender, golden-haired French diplomat with a petite, bird-like wife. Usually, Olga paid no attention to the names to remember them later. But, she almost found the French couple looking vaguely familiar. Maybe not. One meets too many people nowadays, a few worth remembering, she thought, almost tired with life, too early in the evening.

With a glass of wine in her right hand, she used the left to make her way through the crowd towards the far-off corner to greet a friend. There was something, or somebody, whose presence she felt all along, no matter where she moved about the room. Turning around, as if responding to an unknown force, she met a pair of blue French eyes. She smiled, and stopped to chat with an acquaintance. But, wherever she moved, she felt those eyes following. Some kind of invisible ties, a flow of some kind, appeared to be running between her and that man. Her lips kept smiling, but her eyes acquired a look of someone chasing an enigma, like a beautiful but elusive butterfly.

Olga wore a velvet, low-cut, sleeveless gown with a red poppy flower on her left shoulder. The black color made her look even softer, heightening the almost pearly sheen of her fine skin in the light of many chandeliers. The tightness of the dress revealed her attractive body in motion. Men's eyes were brushing against her body, her smiling face, her lavish hair, savoring her as always. Turning around to check where Milosh was, she met again those warm blue eyes brightening on meeting hers. She realized that the warm flow, the force she felt strong and gentle at the same time, had something to do with this slender blue-eyed foreigner. What was his name? Denis? Denis Lombard.

Later, thanking the hostess at the exit and following Milosh, she caught the eyes saying good-bye, now serious and darker. She gracefully bowed her head in wordless response. He did the same, with a long, respectful but meaningful look.

The rest of the week was very busy. At the end, her friend, Mira, invited her to the ballet "Swan Lake," because Marko, her husband, was unable to attend. Olga accepted readily: "Swan Lake" has been one of her favorite ballets since she was a teenager. Dressed in blue lace, she appeared softer and fragile, her eyes open in surprise when Denis and Mireille Lombard greeted her with a smile of recognition. There were some other mutual friends too.

It was hard to concentrate on music. Tchaikovsky sounded more dramatic, even tragic than ever before. There was definitely a strong physical attraction between her and Denis. After the theater, the whole group decided to have a drink and a chat at "Tri sheshira" (restaurant "Three Hats"), in the still cobbled Skadarlia street, popular with the artists and intelligentsia who, through more than a century, needed music, wine, and whatever else to drown their "schmerz" stemming from unhappy love, unsold paintings, returned manuscripts and other life's ailments.

As the evening progressed, everybody was in high spirits, laughing and talking in unison. Olga and Denis were quiet at first, listening to others, but very conscious of each other's physical presence. Olga noticed Denis's golden hair and his brilliant, charming smile. She felt like touching his strong masculine hands, with baby-fine golden hair against his tanned skin. A striking combination of strength and tenderness was the first thing she sensed, and almost an overwhelming aura of abundant life energy and health in his laugh, his gestures, and the gleam of his blue eyes. Whenever she met those eyes, she felt their thoughts crossed too.

Suddenly, following the train of his own thoughts, Denis turned to her and asked, "What makes you happy?" She smiled and responded readily," My daughter. She would be enough, but I tend to crowd my life: I love to read and do that voraciously. I appreciate arts and try not to miss the exhibits. The same is true of concerts and theater. I travel a lot, by business and otherwise. I actually love my work, compulsively, like everything else." And she giggled, looking into his eyes for approval.

"Go on. I know what you mean. Without thinking, tell me which piece of art comes to mind first?"

"Renoir's 'Blue Umbrellas,' Rodin's 'Kiss,' Van Gogh's 'Starry Night.' Enough?"

"So far so good. We are compatible. What do you like about 'The Blue Umbrellas?"

"Call me crazy, but that woman in the painting is me. I know exactly what she feels while the air vibrates with the excitement, electricity, and moisture of a spring shower. diving deeply into his eyes, she checked for more than superficial understanding.

"I know," Denis replied, smiling back into her eyes, "I have always felt the same about those 'gentle rains from heaven,' as the poet says. In fact, I love to walk in the rain."

"Me too. And, I love some silly things that I do not dare talk about."

"I have some outrageous dreams myself that I will fulfill one of these days. Let's exchange some secrets. So far we are as similar as twins." And the blue eyes stayed with hers a bit longer. "Apres Vous, Madame."

"Well, to start with: I love to swim in the sea at night when it looks as if the stars are scattered both in the skies and in the water." And she looked at Denis, who was nodding and smiling encouragingly.

She continued: " Like you, I love rain. Walking in the rain, especially in those unexpected, quick, summer showers that wash the nature. After them the sun shines more brilliantly, like a smile on a child's teary face. For years I've had a craving to dance in the rain, but -- somehow -- I haven't had a chance to do it. By now you must think I am absolutely crazy."

"Not at all. It's a perfectly natural, beautiful idea. I'm sure our prehistoric predecessors must have enjoyed it quite often."

"Yes. I hope. In fact, there is one more detail in it, but it's too personal and we will leave that alone."

"I hope you are talking about dancing in the nude."

"You are dangerous. And, yes, you are right, too."

"I can imagine you, like Danae. You just have to make sure that the rain isn't actually Zeus in disguise, or you may have some unplanned babies," and they both laughed thinking about the Greek myth.

"I love that myth. At least, in it, Zeus is not as crude as he sometimes chooses to be. I wouldn't like that experience even with a Greek god," Olga proceeded.

"I don't think you have to worry. Even a common man would be grateful to gods for a chance to be gentle to you.'' Olga blushed, understanding the message, and they stayed silent for a while, each in their own thoughts.

Further conversation revealed even more how much they had in common.

"I love poetry," Denis was saying. "Write it too. Nothing worth mentioning, of course.

My favorite music includes romantic composers, Tchaikovsky, for instance," and he stopped, looking at her, expecting her to comment.

"Oh, that must include 'The Swan Lake,' I hope... My Swan Lake?" and they laughed again. Soon, they found out they shared composers, authors, famous artists and so much more. At the end of the evening they felt like two old friends. It was agreed that Olga would take the Lombards to some monasteries in the area.

Olga was looking forward to seeing him again and learning more about that fascinating man.

Milosh couldn't go, so she found herself sitting in the back seat of the Lombards' Porsche watching Denis's perfectly shaped, strong hands on the driving wheel, answering Mireille's questions and, secretly, imagining how it would feel to touch the soft, little curls of Denis's nape so close to her during the whole ride. All of them were in a good mood, so they ended up singing French chansons, having a lunch in a cozy little restaurant by the river, and buying fresh eggs from some farmers.

By the end of the day they knew enough about each other to feel comfortable in telling their secrets, fears and faux pas. They laughed and laughed together. Both Olga and Denis were well read. They compared their favorite quotations. They both loved exploring unknown places, traveling, or simply being outdoors. Both of them were workaholics, still finding time to enjoy life, no matter what. Mireille added her wisdom. "Why work at all? The best is just not do anything. Bridge is as much as I can contribute to the society." Like other diplomats' wives, she did not work and played bridge two to three times per week. Naturally, their social obligations were demanding, too, but they had a woman who did all the cooking and cleaning, a man for the garden work, and they hired more help for parties and receptions. "Why do people like you two tend to complicate life unnecessarily?" Mireille yawned languidly, like a cat ready for a nap.

The Lombards had two sons, ages seven and nine. They invited Olga and her family to come and use their swimming pool as often as possible. While the children splashed in the water, chatting endlessly, the four adults sat in the garden drinking champagne and exchanging ethnic jokes. Without clothes, Denis had a perfect, firm, suntanned body that made Olga blush involuntarily. He smiled and embraced hers with a warm, admiring gaze. Much, much later he told her that he could hardly restrain from kneeling in front of her and kissing her feet. Milosh had never said anything like it, Olga silently acknowledged.

Denis was a perfect knight. She had never been appreciated, adored, or courted more than at that time. His taste was refined in everything, his sensitivity matched hers. The two families developed a strong liking for each other. There was always some perfectly natural reason for Denis to call and invite them to a garden party, opera or a quiet evening in their garden. Olga and Milosh returned those invitations readily, introducing Denis and Mireille to some Serbian culinary delicacies. It was obvious that everybody had a good time. Milosh found Mireille quite attractive and interesting for conversation. Both husbands respected and liked each other, enjoying common opinions in politics, sports, even women.

Then, their mutual acquaintances started mentioning to Olga that Denis used every occasion to comment how she had been the most attractive, talented, and intelligent woman he had ever met. That pleased her enormously.

A year passed unnoticed, another summer at the door. One brilliant day in June, Olga was sitting in a restaurant with Denis. "Are you aware that the people around us think we are a couple in love?" Denis asked, touching her hand gently, while laughing his charming, powerful laugh so full of joie de vivre. And, really, people were looking at them: an attractive, happy couple, apparently fond of each other. Playing tennis regularly, Denis was already magnificently brown like freshly baked bread, his blue eyes matching a light blue summer suit. Olga wore a white hand-crocheted dress. After the dinner, Denis drove across the Sava River and they walked by the river and the Museum of Modern Art. They walked for a while, then stood speechless watching the flow of water. He bought her a bunch of wild flowers from a gypsy street vendor, then invited her to his home for a drink.

"What are your summer vacation plans?" Denis asked her. Mireille had already left for France with the boys, as soon as the school was over. He was expected to join them later. Milosh was in Scandinavia, on a business trip. Their vacation had been planned for the Mediterranean.

"Dubrovnik, as always," she smiled as a woman tired of repetition but ready to comply with her husband's choice. The evening was soft and warm, filled with fragrance of freshly cut grass and the flowers, arranged by Denis, "To greet you," as he put it. For a while, they sat in silence. There was electricity in the air, like before a storm. Denis brought her a drink and seated himself on the floor, by her feet. She tensed in fear of the unknown.

"Olga, I have dreamed about this for much longer than you know. I have been in love with you, desperately, for a long time." He stopped, and watched her face, not sure whether to proceed. Her eyes wide open, she was more afraid than surprised.

"Have you ever given a thought to the man who could not travel anywhere without taking you with him: in his thoughts and his heart?"

"You mean, the cards and the gifts have come from you," Olga whispered not finding enough voice to speak up.

"Yes, my dear. I had met you at your lecture on the modern Swedish design and fell in love with your mind, your taste, your femininity... all of you."

"I don't remember meeting you then. There were so many people there. The cards and gifts were beautiful, thank you. I still have them all. I never knew what to think, since you didn't reveal your identity for so long."

"I didn't dare. I wasn't sure whether you'd remember me. We were not actually introduced then, and I was with a crowd. of other people You had impressed me like no other woman in my life. I'd thought it was going to go away, but it grew with time. Since I actually met you, I have so much more reason to respect and love you. I respect you, Olga, do not misunderstand me. I have never felt or done anything like this before. Since I met you, I haven't actually been married to Mireille but to you only. I swear to God. I understand now: I had not married out of love. And Mireille has some serious problems, which I have learned to live with. We all have a cross to bear. I am alone, Olga, as single as a man can be. Trust me without explanation for now. I never knew love before."

He stayed silent for a while. She did not dare to move or say a word..

"I have read all you had ever published, and had been everywhere where I expected to see you. Sounds like a fixation, I'm afraid, but I am normal, Olga, perfectly normal, I just love you. That is all."

She sat silently, stunned by the torrent of his emotion. Finished, Denis just sat in silence, so sad, like a lost child, and so lovable. She wanted to touch his golden hair, to embrace him like a child, to hold him in her lap...but, in panic and dismay, she suggested a little more time. Time to think it out. They both were leaving on vacation soon.

"Please, Denis," she kept repeating, looking at him with her big, dark eyes, full of unknown fear.

Back at home, in her bed, she felt empty and robbed of something that could have been beautiful if she had not been so afraid. Afraid of herself, for the first time in her life, so out of control. She could not fall a sleep longing for him, his strong masculine hands and soft, child-like blue eyes. She saw herself in her mind's eye, running back to him barefoot, in her lacy nightgown, her hair wild and loose, like a picture of a woman possessed with passion that she had seen somewhere long time ago.

Soon, his cards started coming from Paris, South of France, and castles on the Loire. Later, she responded with two postcards from the Mediterranean.

When their vacation ended and Olga returned home, Denis was already in his office, working. She did not call him first, but dropped by unexpectedly to find him at his desk, his golden head bent over some papers.

The rest was inevitable.

They forgot about the world, spending as much time together as possible, visiting museums and galleries, discovering small cafes and restaurants, talking to strangers in the streets and parks. They shared and enjoyed everything. Whatever they touched, bloomed with beauty and deep meaning. Olga introduced Denis to Neruda's love poetry and he became their favorite poet, their beloved season - summer. They discovered they shared love for the seashells, sand, and pebbles. She would visit him in his office, after hours, when everybody had left. He would wait for her impatiently. The blinds were down and his big office, with the palm trees, reminded them of a beach. They would take a shower together, then spread a big towel on the floor, seashells and rose petals scattered all around. This was their vacation, now, since they had had to spend the previous one separated, far from each other.

Like teenagers, they explored each other's bodies with tenderness and an insatiate curiosity. They talked endlessly, learning everything about each other from their early childhood. Denis would kneel in front of Olga, and start kissing her from her toes upward. She loved to play with the golden curls on his chest, like in a Greek god.

Denis was so different from any man she had ever known. She had never loved blue eyes, except in her mother and her daughter. Now he joined her dearest ones. He pleaded to meet her parents. It had to be planned carefully to come naturally. He felt like asking for her hand or at least their approval of him. When they met, they liked each other. Her father quoted Balzac and Hugo, and Denis remarked how Olga was the spitting image of her bubbly father. After that, everything was simple: Denis was admitted into the family. They had one strong tie in common - their love for Olga.

Denis was a passionate and tender lover. There was a certain purity in him that made their love a simple, pure joy. They both needed that. Neither had had a love affair before. Neither accepted adultery and deceit easily. Yet, they could not imagine life without each other anymore.

Naturally, they were still getting together socially as well: formally dressed and polite to each other, exchanging small talk, while in their mind they already were undressed, on the floor of Denis's office with the seashells and rose petals, feeding each other strawberries and cream.

At first, they were blissfully happy. She was not for a moment jealous of Mireille. Denis had told Olga he did not love Mireille and their sex had ceased to be a happy experience years ago. He often watched TV late, with a drink, waiting for Mireille to fall asleep. She was not interested in his work, nor in anything else he did. Unlike him, she found life in other countries outside France of no interest to her, and spent time playing bridge. She slept a lot and had some emotional problems that he didn't like to talk about. Like the wife in Graham Green's story "Blue Film," she blamed Denis for not making her life more exciting, since he was finding fun everywhere he went.

Denis never showed anything but respect for Milosh. He seemed to have genuinely liked him, because -- he said -- Milosh always had a gleam of pride in his eyes when talking about Olga. Olga was not sure about the "gleam," but did not press the issue. She knew, Denis was a dreamer and a romantic. He saw everything in life wrapped in "the clouds of glory." She was like that herself, but neither of their spouses shared that quality, practical as they were.

Once or twice, either Denis or Olga had to leave on a business trips. While apart, they only grew hungrier for each other, more tender and passionate on return. From Russia, she brought him amber cuff links, from Greece a silver ring. The autumn came and they collected yellow, golden, and red leaves from the park to scatter in Denis's office for their clandestine meetings. They went to the market place and shopped for seasonal fruits to eat together. He was happy when people took them for a married couple.

Heavy rains started and she had to wash her legs in the sink, one day, after running through the rain to meet with him in his office. He watched her do that, and it became his favorite memory, he often told her.

The winter came and he wore a white pullover that made him look irresistible. He had her wear it on her naked body, as the only garment, arguing that it looked much better on her, showing just enough, yet not too much (the pullover ended where her long legs started). After that, he would wear the pullover hoping that it kept the warmth of her body with the enchanting combination of her perfume and the body odor, not to mention the memories thereof (his wording that made her laugh). That white pullover was their favorite. He loved some pieces of her wardrobe: white silk pants and a blue oversized shirt, a big black straw-hat with a red rose, tiny white lace bikini panties she had bought in Italy thinking of him and wore that first day she came back to his office after the summer vacation (he called it appropriately "The Italian wedding dress"). She took great pleasure in dressing for him. He took great pleasure in undressing her.

Denis often told Olga that he knew her body better than she herself, loved her dark, heavy hair and the way she tossed it, while laughing. He even started learning Serbian language. "Nema problema," (No problem) became one of his off-hand phrases, and Olga had to laugh at how "Serbian" his intonation was in spite of the French accent. He sang to her "Tamo daleko, daleko kraj mora," (Far away at the sea shore) with a mixture of respect for the Serbian history of suffering and French romantic chivalry. He learned, and used, typically Serbian terms of endearment, like "Dusho moja," knowing that it was how her mother called her, and therefore had a stronger appeal than the French "Cherie." It seemed, he knew everything about her and wanted to know more.

Soon, the spring came and their love was new and young again. Yet still another summer passed and their passion grew deeper and stronger. The autumn rains and the winter snow followed and found them still happy as ever, growing more and more in love. They did not care about the rest of the world and, somehow, the world left them alone, too. Only, here and there, when she found him quiet and insisted to know why, he would just say: "Oh, let's not get into that. It's Mireille. Nothing involving you. It's just her old annoying ways." And Olga would do everything to make him forget.

It was not easy for her to live a double life, either. There were lies to be invented, time taken from home and her family. Guilt ridden, sleepless, she would pray: "God, please, don't make me be another Anna Karennina. Help me, God, not to hurt Milosh and Jasmina. Don't let me abandon my child for a lover."

Jasmina was doing fine at school, never really needing any help. She was not acting as a teenager yet, but would blush around the boys and become overly shy. Olga new, pretty soon, Jasmina was going to need her even more. The questions about boys, romance and sex would start. She wanted to be ready, with a clean conscience and an open mind, to support Jasmina's road to womanhood.

As for Milosh, there were things that were missing, and they were important to her. He seemed to not know or understand her as a woman at all. She wondered if he even cared enough to find out more. Once, she came home with a woman's magazine that had a test of intimacy for spouses. She answered the questions quickly, easily, and almost hundred per cent correctly, about him. He did not know the answers to the color of her underwear or a nightgown, her favorite dress, flower, perfume, music, book, movie, food and many other things. She almost cried when they compared the results. He failed the intimacy test! That was what she missed in him the most.

On another occasion, when her birthday was approaching, she gave him a lot of hints about her favorite perfume. Now, she felt, he will know, and surprise her with something that will surely make her happy. Another disappointment. This time, she did cry. He just didn't know. In spite of all that, over all, he was a decent, good man, so she persistently tried to forget "those other things." His respect for her, and his almost awkward shyness, made up for all that he was not and could never be. She never thought it was his fault, therefore shame and guilt were always close. The cake was not sweet under the icing.

One day, unexpectedly, Denis started," Olga, I don't know how to tell you. I have bad news. Very, very bad news."

"Mireille?" she asked.

"No, much worse. I'd received a transfer to Sweden. It cannot be changed, I've already tried."

She did not say a word. There was nothing to say. She had known all along this was only a temporary gift, a borrowed time to be paid for later. The time had come. It was the end of happiness, the end of her life. She was like a somnabul, an empty shell walking, no thoughts, no feelings. Her spirit was somewhere else, in another world. Strangely, people never noticed anything. She was dying, bleeding her life out, and the world went on. Nobody even noticed. Milosh asked her the most trivial questions about the electricity bills, Jasmina complained about her morning cereal.

The days before Denis's departure were like a blur, like a sickness with high fever. Nothing to remember, only pain, pain and yearning for him.

The last she saw of him was at the farewell reception he gave. She was standing in the corner, in her emerald silk dress, her big dark eyes like those on the Muench's painting. In his office, earlier, they had agreed to part in front of other people. That was better.

From her corner, Olga was looking at Denis talking to people, wondering how she was going to live on without him. She was looking around at his office where they spent so many happy hours together. She knew each chair, each painting, even the ashtrays. Like a dead fetus, a child of love, something settled in her to stay after he was gone. She saw his pale face, his blue eyes dark and serious. Shaking hands with everyone, he came to her, placed a pale pink rose bud in her hands, looking into her eyes.

"Good bye, Olga. Thank you. Good luck." That was all. And she was already in the street, trying to open her car with a wrong key, her eyes full of tears.

How can I live on? How can I live without him? I want to die. I want to die.

And she nearly did. She never quite understood why and how that truck hit her. Nothing was left of her BMW. She was seriously injured: her head, chest and legs. But this was all happening outside her, to someone else. She did not feel pain, did not care how long it would take to recover. One thing was certain, however. She had not tried to commit suicide. It had just happened so she could learn how much she still loved life. She was not ready to die. Neither was she ready to live. Yet.

But, live she did. There were her daughter, her husband, and her friends. They had been neglected for too long. And there were still things to do.

For a long time there was no word from Denis. They had agreed to take that approach rightfully. She was thinking about him, though. About him and her, and how all this could have happened. She was sorting out two images of herself, "then" and "now." They were different, and she still did not understand why.

Then, more letters started coming to her office. Almost as often as before. Even some unexpected calls. Quite a nuisance. She could not recognize the man anymore. This all had nothing to do with her. The man was tending to his needs, while she wanted him to stick to their agreement and leave her alone. Why did he write? She had no will to respond. There was nothing left to say. Obviously, theirs was one of many love affairs. At the time it felt like something unique and precious, but it probably always does at first. It's over now. With the feeling gone, that aura of magic, it became so common, almost distasteful.

But she needed to clear it with herself, how it all could happen, so she would never make the same humiliating mistake again. She analysed, she compared, she concluded: back then she felt but didn't think, less analyse. Now, she really listened to him. He was complaining about his wife ("a crazy alcoholic"), his sons ("away in a boarding school, leaving him alone to deal with their mother"), his whole life, empty and meaningless "without her."Mireille belonged in a mental institution, he insisted. He deserved some life... and the complaints went on and on. They sounded confused and repetitive, as if coming from a deranged or intoxicated man. Was he drinking? Depressed or disturbed? How much did she know him? This was not the man she knew. Denis was a strong, intelligent, attractive man. Who is this man? Was she blind then, or had he changed so drastically? His letters were still full of praise and devotion for Olga. He needed her more than ever. That she believed. But, at the same time, Mireille must have needed him all along, now more than ever before. Isn't that what marriage is about?

Olga had never asked anything from him. How could she? He was, conveniently, married. So was she. She gave him what she had to offer, out of love. But, then, was it love if it could pass without leaving behind something lasting? Mutual respect? Friendship? The only residue here was shame, a strong disappointment more in herself than in him.

Yet, she had loved him. That's what she had felt back then. And if he had asked her to marry him, she may have done it. It would not have been an easy decision, but... How easy it is for a human to make a mistake, she thought sadly. Could it be that she was blinded by passion, seeing what she wanted to see not what the reality offered?

Now, she wondered if Denis had really loved her or just needed excitement added to his empty marriage. She had always thought of him as strong and giving. Now she remembered how he had told her Mireille considered him selfish and egocentric. May be she knew better, after all. Who was killing whom in this marriage? Had he ever had an honest complaint about Mireille? How would she know? Denis had not been the only man who had ever cried on her shoulder for marrying "a wrong woman." How "wrong" were all those women, she wondered. Maybe, rather, we get what we deserve. And she felt ashamed, and sad that she had ever been so nearsighted, so blinded, so weak and therefore unfair to so many people: Milosh, Jasmina, Mireille?

She looked back at herself, over and over, not recognizing that woman, blind with passion, loneliness and a powerful hunger, looking for the "perfect man that would love her the way she needed"? Well, whatever it was in her then, must have been "served," because now it was not there anymore. She did not feel passion, hunger, or loneliness, only regret, shame, and guilt. Both she and Denis had believed that they were lonely in their marriages because their spouses were so different, that they did not understand them. So, they went through life lonely and unfulfilled. How often do we hear this, she wondered. So often, by so many people, that one believes it has to be true. Yet, is it? Not anymore, she realized. She felt, after that experience, she was a different person. As if she could see and hear better. Could it be that both she and Denis had been egocentric and selfish, in love with themselves and love itself?

Romance. Romantic love! What 'potion' in it causes people to do crazy things that they have to regret later? Now, romantic love seemed to her like an addiction: "high" for a while but shallow and pathetic later. Like a crime of passion, an act out of our control, with which we cannot identify once we are out of that mental and emotional state.

For days, for months, she wrestled with her part in that affair. Never before could anyone think of her as easy. What happened? Was it, like in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, only a temporary madness? It certainly looked like it now. She felt sad each time she looked at Milosh and her child engaged in some happy, loving interaction. If she could only go back to the time when she'd been still clean. But she was grateful she had not gone even further. One thing she knew: it could never happen again. She knew better now. As if awakened from a bad dream, she felt the same relief and a renewed capacity to understand and enjoy everything that life offered on a deeper level.

More deliberate than ever to keep her life in order, enriched by the experience, Olga continued to meet her life's challenges and family obligations. Time passed. Denis stopped writing. Jasmina started blooming under her parents' love and care: her talents became more visible and resulted in an overall feeling of happiness and fulfillment for the whole family. Milosh was steadily climbing in his career, too, respectful and understanding as always. In his charming, shy manner, he would praize her to their friends, "Have you noticed the water in our city has improved? It affects people. My wife has never been better. She is all I have ever dreamed of finding in a woman." With a pang of guilt and sadness, now she recognized, behind his joking words, Milosh's unwavering love and pride in her. And she was happy. Happy because he was too. Her goal was to make sure she made him and Jasmina happy. Nothing else really mattered. The rest was pure vanity. Even her professional work was important only to the extent it was of use to others, never significant enough to interfere with her family.

For a long time, Olga wanted to talk to Milosh about her guilt and pain. She wasn't sure whether it was right or cruel to do. She had the need to have it in the open and off her chest, to feel clean again. It was up to Milosh to decide about their future then. Knowing what pain it would cause Milosh, she waited. One day, however, they talked about a couple they knew, getting a divorce because of the wife's infidelity.

Milosh was genuinely concerned, "It is sad, especially because of the children. It will affect them for the rest of their lives. Maybe they could've resolved it without a divorce. One can forgive and forget. Life goes on and things change. Nobody wins in a divorce."

Something broke in Olga, and she started passionately explaining her opinion. Before she could get into personal details, Milosh stopped her with his gentle smile. His beautiful, dark eyes had so much wisdom and love in them when he said:

"Olga, we are old enough to know how tricky words can be. They are used for lies as well as the truth. My truth, your truth. Even that changes, as we change. I believe in commucation beyond words, in trust. Love and respect each other, and live our life the best we can."

That was Milosh. He either did not want to know more or knew it all along. Either way, she respected and loved him for being exactly the way he was. Touched by love, Olga felt closer to him than ever. It gave her an inner eye for life altogether. She finally found peace and joy like never before.

Memoirs and Short Stories
CECILIA'S AUNT

"No, I'm sorry but you are absolutely not right," Professor is saying, getting a bit red in his face.

"I'm glad you are not claiming that, in my age, I may be immature. Gullible and naive sounds just as bad. Why, I believe I've had a normal experience with women. I've always been a perfect gentleman, though."

I am looking at him thinking, " Why is he so defensive?" I won't say a word. If there is something, it will show by itself. How does the old saying go: "Give him a piece of rope, and he will hang himself."

Something like that.

"There is one intimate story in my life that I could tell you. It will help you understand my point." And he nervously brushes his high forehead, as if wiping off the swarming memories to choose the right one.

"It happened while I was in charge of the teachers' international field trips, some twenty years ago. I was leading a group from Belgrade. At the railway station in Zagreb, another, smaller group joined us. There I noticed a young, outstandingly attractive woman saying good-bye to her husband. He was much older and at first I was not quite sure whether he was a husband or a father, but there was intimacy between them that made me pretty sure they were a couple."

Without interrupting him, I just nod and smile to encourage him to proceed.

"Naturally, I wanted to know more about a woman who loves her husband so much that she cries when leaving him for only a fortnight." And he smiles a smile of a connoisseur who may be modest, but he also knows his worth. "I made sure we sat together during the trip. Her name was Cecilia. An unusual name like everything else about her. During the trip she told me, among other things, that she had a good marriage. Her husband was considerably older, but kind and wealthy man. Her great sorrow, however, was the fact that she wanted children and it just wasn't happening."

"What a shame. Hope it didn't ruin their marriage." I say, getting involved in the story.

"Don't interrupt me." Professor stops me, annoyed. Collecting his thoughts, he proceeds: "I was impressed by Cecilia. Here was what I call a real woman. They are a rare species in these days."

After this, Professor sits silently, obviously reminiscing. I am not sure anymore if I am going to hear the whole story at all. Then, suddenly, as if deciding to skip the details, he just adds with assurance: "I know, Cecilia will never forget me."

"Why? I see you haven't forgotten her," I smile, hoping to hear more.

"It is a sensitive matter. You don't seem to understand." He sighs deeply, but continues: " On the train, in the evening, Cecilia felt chilly. Naturally, I offered my jacket. She didn't want me to sit in a shirt and catch cold because of her. That's when I learned she was a sensitive, caring woman." Professor stops, flipping through his memory like through the picture album with some happy, memorable scenes. Then, with a mischievous smile, he concludes: "We ended up sharing my jacket. You can imagine how I felt sitting so close to an attractive woman. She was beautiful, as I've said before. And, I was young, single, and not bad looking myself.... You understand. Something was starting to happen. One of those things, stronger than a human being, any human being. Honorable as both of us were, we still were young and human, only human. No words spoken, of course, but the rest of the people must have noticed it too. After that we were inseparable, to say the least."

I am thinking: this is not clear, not even logical. What does he mean "after that?" After what? Sitting next to each other and sharing a jacket? What could have happened on a train in front of so many teachers? And, weren't they moving rather fast, especially for a woman whose face had hardly dried from the farewell tears?" Sure, Professor was free and single (he still is), but Cecilia wasn't. She desperately wanted to have babies but... not like that, I hope. Maybe I should just be quiet. It will be clearer later. I have a hunch already, but I may be wrong."

"London was our target. Everybody was getting impatient to get there. Although we had seen so much on our way, we were getting tired of sitting and ready for walking, taking a shower, and sleeping in a comfortable, soft bed. After one day in London, I was going to proceed to Oxford and Cambridge with a small group, the rest were to stay in London for the whole period. I felt quite sure that Cecilia was going to go with me. However, she told me she had an aunt in London and wanted to stay with her."

Professor was silent again. Silent and sad. I could understand: going together would have been the first opportunity to have some privacy with Cecilia, if she joined him. Not to mention how short time they had together anyway. It's never long enough for those in love.

"From Oxford, I tried to call the hotel, but couldn't get hold of Cecilia. I was hoping she missed me as much as I missed her. I could hardly wait to be back. Naturally, I couldn't pay too much attention to the sightseeing in Oxford and Cambridge. Cecilia was on my mind constantly." Professor brushes some invisible hair from his forehead and proceeds faster, in almost staccato outbursts: "We returned to London. Instead of the greatest happiness, I went through a heart wrenching shock. A few teachers told me Cecilia had been constantly seen with a certain young man. They described him to me in full detail and told me the name of the little cafe on the corner of the street where they regularly met. What was I supposed to do? To spy on her was demeaning, I knew. But I needed to know the truth. Shakespeare, that genius with profound knowledge of human nature, offered the solution."

Before I could imagine Professor reciting; "To be or not to be, that is the question..." he moves close to me and, gazing into my eyes with almost hamletian madness, unfolds his "scene within a scene: "I told her I'd seen her in the cafe, and I described the young man briefly. Cecilia blushed, stammered, then stopped trying. Seeing that everything was lost, she started crying."

Professor drops his head and stays quiet for a long time. Then, with hamletian disgust, he smiles a bitter smile. Spontaneously and in unison, we both quote Shakespeare's timeless wisdom:" Frailty, thy name is woman."

I think that's the end. I've heard enough, and I'm not a bit surprised. The words naive and gullible, still apply. But Professor continues: " Of course, Cecilia recovered from the shock and explained: the young man was her cousin, he was driving her to her aunt. Strangely, the spell was broken, irreparably, and it didn't make any difference anymore. We parted our ways right there, and I never saw her again. That's the end."

Before I can say anything, he adds:" You see what I mean? I stay a gentleman, no matter what. Therefore, I know: Cecilia will never forget me."

After some deliberation, I add softly: "I wonder if that's how she sees it."

"What do you mean, young man? You still don't understand." Professor is seriously annoyed now. He probably never had a student as dumb as I appear in this matter.

"Well. There is more, if you need know. After all that, later, Cecilia came to Belgrade and tried to find me at the University." And he looks at me with a challenging smile almost saying: You see now? It is all clear, just as I am telling you.

While I am still thinking, he adds hurriedly: " At least, that's what I've been told. I wasn't there at the time."

Now he is waiting for me to finally understand.

But the dumb ones are usually stubborn: "Maybe she needed a place to stay while in Belgrade? Maybe she wanted to check whether you were still under her spell? One never knows." I shrug.

"Oh, listen. You don't understand. You seem not to want to believe that I was of any importance in her life. But, I'll tell you more. Later, she got a divorce and never re-married." And he looks at me triumphantly.

"Oh, so she never re-married?" I ask.

"Never," Professor strongly emphasizes. "At least, that's what I've been told. I never inquired," he adds quickly.

"So, she never re-married in spite of the fact that all she really wanted in life was to have children?" I ask again.

"As I told you." Professor confirms. "She is probably still in Zagreb: single, with no children."

Nodding, I feel I know enough about Cecilia and dear old Professor. With a sigh, I decide not to say more than the cryptic:

"I hope her aunt in London is in good health."