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Tema: Predrag Ristic  (Pročitano 2851 puta)
08. Jul 2005, 01:31:53
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Poruke Odustao od brojanja
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Predrag Ristic: Pijanino u blatu
("Prometej", Novi Sad - "Mi", Beč, 1997)
PIJANINO U BLATU

U jedan po ponoći, jedne avgustovske noći kada nije moglo da se spava od vrućine i komaraca, u stanu na Dorćolu je zazvonio telefon.

»Deco, izvinite što vas budim, sigurno ste već zaspali«, izvinjavala se poluglasom Petrova majka.

»Nema veze mama, šta se desilo?« probuđen tek što je zaspao, pitao je Petar. »Da l’ je ćale u redu?« ustreptao je.

Govorio je šapatom da ne probudi malu Saru. Mirjana je osluškivala ležeći nalakćena u krevetu. Pogledala je na budilnik i odmah pomislila da je nešto u vezi sa mobilizacijom.

»Sad su bili iz Vojnog odseka. Tražili su te. Hteli su da nam uruče neki poziv! Moraš da primiš, pa to ti je!«

Iako je bilo kasno i mada je bilo hitno, nekako je odugovlačila da direktno pređe na stvar. Bilo joj je neprijatno.

»Pa, jeste li primili?« brzo se razbudio. »Dobro je, nije ćale!«, pomislio je sa olakšanjem.

»Nismo, ali ćale se zbunio. Znaš kako je to kad te probude u pola noći...«

»Šta znači: zbunio se?« rekao je suvo. Oblio ga je hladan znoj. Znao je šta će ona da kaže i osećao da se muči. Uplašio se čekao na definitivnu potvrdu. »Šta me sad muntaš? ’Bemtiboga! Kaži šta je bilo!«, požurivao ju je u mislima.

»Pa oni navalili: gde si, da mi uzmemo poziv, da moraš da dođeš... Vojska je to, sine... Sad su takva vremena da se sa tim ne smemo šaliti...«

»Čekaj sad, ništa ne razumem. Jeste li primili poziv ili šta je bilo?«

»Ma, tata im je rekao da ne stanuješ više ovde!«

»I? Nije im valjda dao ovu adresu?«, prostrujalo mu je kroz svest. Nije hteo da veruje.

»Oni navalili, pa gde si, kako da te nađu, pa mi smo roditelji, pa mora da znamo gde nam je sin... Tata im dao vašu adresu.« Morala je da napravi kratku pauzu, valjda da čuje, oseti reakciju. »Zato te zovem, da znaš. Možda će svakog časa da zazvone tu kod tebe...«

Usledila je još jedna pauza. Duboka, mokra, masna i lepljiva. Lepila se na nju ljubav prema roditeljima, poštovanje starijih, patriotizam, kukavičluk, herojstvo, briga za opstanak, avanturizam, sećanje na komarce sa prošle vojne vežbe, slika pijanog desetara sa pištoljem i Titovom slikom, serija gnusnih psovki... Trajala je pauza oko sedamsto godina. Onda se svest počela polako da vraća. Iza Urala, iza Karpata, sa Himalaja... U predsoblju je bilo strašno hladno, oko minus pedesetpet. U stvari, kuvao se u svom znoju na plus sto. Zujanje u ušima je malo utihnulo i mrtvačkim glasom, kao da na nekom pogrebu govori sa nekim ko slabo zna srpski sricao je:

»Bože, ma-ma, pa za-to sam i bio pri-jav-ljen kod vas! I re-kli smo da ni-kad ni-šta ne znate. Naročito ne gde sam.« Ubrzao je malo: »ni kad ću da dođem! Sad ste me provalili!«

»Znam, sine. Šta da ti kažem. Ćale se uznemirio i rekao im. Kaže nije vreme da se pravimo pametni. Može neko da te proglasi za dezertera, a onda ko zna šta dalje...«

Mirjana i Petar su se gledali u polumraku. Iz njegovog dela dijaloga je razumela sve. Onda joj je glava pala unazad na jastuk i oči se zacrvenele. Petra je neko udario maljem direktno u stomak, savio se, seo na stolicu prekoputa telefona i mislio da li sada da dalje gazi petom ili da ohladi. Začudo, suprotno njegovoj prirodi, možda zato što je majka bila na drugom kraju veze, a možda i zato što je stvarno veoma bio iznenađen, razočaran, uplašen, potresen, jednostavno je spustio loptu.

»Ništa, ’ajd sad idi da spavaš. Ako bude nešto, čućemo se sutra.«

»Kaži Mirjani da i ona zna, ako zazvone da ne otvara...«

To ga je strašno iznerviralo. »Sad ona ima šta da me savetuje...!«, kipeo je. »Dobro je, kevo, znam ja šta ću da joj kažem.« Nije mogao da izdrži, na uši bi prolajao. Vrlo ravno i polako je rekao:

»Kaži tati da se nije baš proslavio sa ovim! ’Ajde laku noć.« Bio je očajan. U njemu je kipelo. »Rođeni otac da me provali!«

»Zdravo...«, bila je očajna. »Rođenog sina da provalimo!«

Petrov otac je ležao u krevetu i zurio u mrak misleći, nadajući se da je od dva zla odabrao manje. Naslušao se u životu dovoljno priča o streljanju dezertera na licu mesta. Nije mogao da spava. Ćutao je i gledao u ništa.

Petar je spustio slušalicu. Kroz mračnu sobu se, kao ranjeni medved, dogegao do mračnog kreveta. Mračna žena ga je upitala, da proveri da li je sve dobro razumela, da li je njegov otac vojsci dao njihovu adresu. Mračno je klimao glavom u mraku, na jastuku. Ona je videla.

»’Bemtiboga! Mogu svakog časa da naiđu«, odbasirao je.

»Pa šta da radimo, da l’ da ideš negde, kod nekog da spavaš? Danas mi kaže Bane: i on je već nedelju dana van kuće. Svake noći spava na drugoj adresi. Zato onomad nikako nismo mogli da ga nađemo.«

»Pa gde ću u ovo doba noći? Možda su već ispred vrata i čekaju da me uhvate u bekstvu.« Brzo je razmišljao.

»Ne… Znaš šta: dobro je ipak što nam je javila. Ako dođu, ti ćeš da otvoriš i da kažeš da nisam tu. Kaži da sam na službenom putu u inostranstvu, u Italiji… Ne znaš tačno kad se vraćam, nismo se davno čuli, ili…« U glavi mu je zujalo.

»Šta ja znam, da odglumiš da se razvodimo i da sam kod švalerke?«

»Ma nemoj da preteruješ! A šta ćemo ako uđu i nađu te tu?«

»E, pa ne daj da uđu! Neće oni baš da provaljuju. Za to moraju da imaju nalog. Jednostavno nemoj ni da otvaraš vrata, pričajte kroz ključaonicu. Kome pa i da otvaraš, sama žena sa bebom, u stanu u sred noći?«

»Jao, strašno se brinem!«

»Kome pričaš? Sutra ćemo da okrenemo drugi list!« Zagrlili su se u isčekivanju. Te noći ni za san ni za seks nije bilo mesta u toj postelji. Jednostavno su se, zagrljeni, branili od straha koji se uvlačio u njih.

Kulminisalo je u tri i petnaest, kada je zazvonilo na vratima. Pogledali su se u mraku. Mirjana je ustala i polako se zaputila ka vratima. Manijak je opet zazvonio.

»Briga njega za Saru, za komšiluk, za lepe manire...« strujalo je Mirjani kroz glavu. »Ko je?« Pitala je krmeljivim glasom ne otvarajući.

Prezime je pisalo na vratima. Dečački glas je upitao: »Je l’ Petar kod kuće?«

»Nije, ko ga traži? Je l’ znate vi koje je doba?«

»Iz Vojnog Ocka, drugarce. Otvori! Treba da primiš poziv«, zagrmeo je drugi, očigledno daleko iskusniji glas.

Sa ovim nije računala. Sada je imala dilemu kako da reaguje. Da nije očekivala posetu sigurno bi bila uplašenija u sred noći i ne bi htela tek tako da otvori. Učinilo joj se da je to normalno ponašanje.

»Čekajte, ne mogu tek tako da vam otvorim u sred noći. Ja sam sama. Imam tu i dete. Pokažite mi neke legitimacije. Gledam vas kroz špijunku.« Podigla je kapak sa rupice na vratima, u visini očiju. Uveličavajuće staklo je pokazalo mladića i čoveka, u civilu. Mogli bi da budu taksisti, preprodavci droga, doktori nauka...

»Ma, kake legitimacije, drugarce. Otvor da ti predamo poziv. Niša nećti bude.«

Šta sad? Planirala je da istraje glumeći pravnu državu. »Ne može tek tako, bilo ko, u sred noći da ti bane na vrata i da te tera da mu otvoriš!«, hrabrila je samu sebe, verujući da je Petar ipak sigurniji dokle god su vrata zaključana, a ti tipovi napolju. »Ne mogu da vam otvorim. Imamo sanduče dole«, setila se. »Ubacite poziv tamo. Ja ću ga odmah ujutru uzeti.«

»Jeste vi sigurni da Petar nije tu?« pitao je opet onaj mlađi glas, verovatno u želji da starijem po činu pokaže svoju kulturu ali i istrajnost.

»Nije kod kuće, rekla sam vam. Na putu je, u inostranstvu.« Imala je utisak da pritisak pomalo popušta.

»A kaće se vrati?« pitao je sada onaj stariji. Videla je kako nešto beleži u svesku. Onda se svetlo na hodniku ugasilo. Čula je kako nešto šapuću međusobno i kako koraci silaze (ili se penju?) stepenicama.

»Ne znam, za par dana. Kod njega se to nikad ne zna.« Osetila je da priča praznim vratima.

Ni "izvinite", ni "laku noć", ni "doviđenja"... Jednostavno tajac. Nije bila sigurna da li su otišli ili čuče pred vratima. Svetlo u hodniku se više nije palilo. »Mora da su sišli u mraku... Ako su sišli! Možda je jedan od njih zalepljen uvetom na vrata i čeka da nešto progovorimo... Možda drugi gleda iz nekog stana preko puta, kroz durbin, u našu sobu.«

»Suviše američkih policijskih filmova«, zaključila je i vratila se u krevet. Bez reči su ležali, osluškivali i osećali se veoma srećno.

»Opet smo ih zajebali!«

Ujutru je sanduče za poštu bilo prazno. Nikakav poziv nije ostavljen ni Petrovim roditeljima. Ni narednih nekoliko dana ništa nije stizalo i niko nije opet dolazio. Nekoliko nedelja kasnije novi poziv na vojnu vežbu uredno je, poštom, stigao na adresu Petrovih roditelja. Ispalo je da ga otac nije provalio: Vojni odsek je još uvek imao staru adresu. Stara šema je opet funkcionisala. Mirjana je otišla u opštinu i rekla da je na putu. Petar nije znao da li treba da mu lakne ili da se još više zabrine. Bilo je očigledno da "pozivari u noći" uopšte nisu bili iz JNA.

»Otkuda im onda, uopšte, moja adresa? Ko su bili ti tipovi? Za koje, kakve i čije jedinice su me zvali? Da li je trebalo, ’bemtiboga, da naprasno postanem dobrovoljac u nekakvom odredu za čišćenje po Hrvatskoj?« ostala su pitanja bez odgovora.

Jedan film, onaj Petrov, definitivno je pukao. Mirjanin je bio blizu.
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Underpromise; overdeliver.

Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
Predrag Ristic: Pianino in Mud
("Prometej", Novi Sad - "Mi", Bec, 1997)
PIANINO IN MUD

At one o'clock in the morning, on an August night when you couldn't sleep because of the heat and mosquitoes, the telephone rang in an apartment near the center of Belgrade.

"Hi kids. Sorry to wake you. Must be asleep already, huh?", Petar's mother was apologizing in a low voice.

"Doesn't matter mom, what happened?" Petar asked rubbing his eyes. He had just fallen asleep. "Is Pa all right?" he trembled.

He was whispering in order not to wake little Sara up. Mirjana listened tensely, her upper body lifted in bed, supported by her elbows, poking the pillow. She looked at the alarm clock and immediately thought the call had something to do with the mobilization.

"They just left a few minutes ago. From the army. Looking for you. Wanted to hand us the draft notice. Said we had to take it - we had to!"

Although it was late and although it was urgent, she was reluctant to get to the point. She felt uncomfortable.

"So, did you take it?" his head cleared quickly. "At least it's not dad!" he thought, relieved.

"We didn't, but Pa got confused. You know what it's like when they wake you up, in the middle of the night..."

"What do you mean confused?" he said in a dry voice. Cold sweat crept down his spine. He knew what she was about to say and he felt her pain. He was scared and waited for the final sentence. "Why don't you come out with it? Gees, say it!" he thought, rushing her in his mind.

"Well, they were pushy: where are you, we should take the notice, you have to go... It is the army, you know son... In times like these we shouldn't take that light..."

"Wait a minute now, I don't get it. Did you take the notice, or what happened?"

"Pa told them you don't live here any more." she spilled out.

"And? He didn't give them this address, did he?" flashed through his head. He didn't want to believe it.

A short pause and then she continued. "They pushed us really hard, where are you, how can they get in touch, we are the parents, we should know where our son is... so Pa gave them the address." She had to make another brief break, to hear, to feel his reaction. "That's why I'm calling, so you know. They may burst in any second now..."

Another pause followed. A deep, wet, greasy and sticky pause. It contained a mixture of love for his parents, patriotism, anxiety, bravery, fear for pure survival, an itch for hazard, respect for the elderly, memories of mosquitoes during the last military drill, pictures of the drunk corporal with Tito's photo in one hand and a gun in the other, a stream of filthy language... The pause seemed to have lasted seven hundred years. Then consciousness began returning, slowly, from behind the Ural mountains, beyond the Carpathians, down form the Himalayas... He was barefoot in the anteroom and it was very cold there, minus fifty degrees at least, it seemed. Actually, he was boiling hot, steaming in his sweat, at over a plus hundred... Then humming in his ears abated and he said, with a tone from the graveyard, pronouncing each word slowly, as if speaking to an impaired person:

"God, mo-ther, this is why I was re-gis-tered at your ad-dress! And we said you are ne-ver to know a-ny-thing! E-spe-cially not where I am!" He accelerated a little: "nor when I will come. Now you've blown my cover!"

"I know, son. What can I say? Dad got upset and told them. He says it's not time to fool around. Someone may pronounce you a deserter and who knows what else..."

Mirjana and Petar stared at each other in the dark. Hearing only his side of the conversation was enough. Her head fell back on the pillow and her eyes began to water. Petar felt as if he had been hit by a sledge hammer, directly in the gut. He bent down and moved to a chair opposite the phone. He contemplated whether to press his mother or not. He was ready to explode, but contrary to his nature, perhaps because it was his mother on the other end of the line or because he was genuinely surprised, disappointed and scared, he decided to let it go.

"OK mom, go to sleep now. If there's anything, we'll talk tomorrow."

"Tell Mirjana, so she knows, if they ring the bell..."

That again almost made him explode. "Now she has advice for me!" his head was ready to burst but he said "OK mom OK, I know what to tell her" He couldn't hold it back fully, he'd blast if he hadn't said at least one thing he was feeling. "Tell dad this wasn't his best move! Good night!"

He was distressed, boiling inside: "Dad, of all people, to let me down like this!"

"Bye...", his mother was desperate as she hung up. "Dad, of all people! We really let him down!" pierced her as she strolled back to her bedroom.

Petar's father was lying in bed motionless, gazing at the darkness. He was thinking about what he had done and hoped he had chosen the lesser evil. In his time, he had heard plenty of stories of deserters being executed on the spot. He couldn't sleep. He was silent and staring into the void.

Petar lowered the receiver. He stumbled like a wounded bear, through the darkened room, back into the darkened bed. His dismal wife wanted to check if she had got it right and asked if his father revealed their address to the army. He shook his head, in the dark, on the pillow. She felt the motion.

"Gees! They could be here any minute!" he mumbled in a low voice.

"What should we do? Do you want to go sleep somewhere else? Bane told me today he's been sleeping out for a week! Every night at a different address. That's why we couldn't get hold of him the other day."

"Where should I go, this time of night? And what if they're already out front, just waiting for me to try to run." He was thinking fast. "No. You know what? It is good that she told us. If they come you open the door and say I'm not here. Tell them I'm on a business trip, somewhere abroad. In Italy or something, you don't know when I'll be back, haven't heard from me for a few days..." The humming in his head started again. "Or, why not? You could say we're separated, I'm with a lover?"

"Oh, please, don't overdo it! What if they burst in and find you?"

"You can't let them! They won't break the door down, I don't think. They'd need a warrant for that. It's not like I'm some kind of serial killer they're after. Just keep the door closed, no matter what. Talk through the peephole, if you have to. It's not even logical for you to open the door! A lone woman, with a baby in the middle of the night?"

"I'm worried sick!"

"I know. So am I. We're gonna have to make some changes tomorrow!" They embraced in anticipation. There was no place for sleep, nor for sex in their bed that night. They simply held each other tight in an attempt to keep the terror away.

The pinnacle was reached at a quarter past three, when the doorbell rang. They looked at each other in the dark. Mirjana stood up slowly and tiptoed to the door. The manic ringing sounded again.

"They couldn't care less for the child, or for the neighbors. What manners!" streamed through her head as she reached the anteroom. "Who is it?" she asked in a broken voice. She was standing in the dark, her ear on the door. Their family name was written on the other side.

A boyish voice asked "Is Petar home?"

"No, he's not. Who are you? Do you know what time it is?"

"We're from the military, comrade. Open the door! You have to accept a document for Petar." Another much deeper and older voice grumbled. It had echoes of interrogation experience.

She didn't expect this and didn't know how to react. Had she not expected the visit, she would have been even more frightened and insecure. She would not open the door. It seemed that would be the correct reaction, something they wouldn't mistrust.

"Wait a minute, I can't open the door just like that! It's the middle of the night, I'm alone, with a baby. Show me some ID, at least. I'm watching you through the peephole." She lifted the cover on the little hole in the door and looked outside. The magnifying glass showed a young man and another one in his forties, both in plain clothes. They could have been cab drivers or drug dealers or anything...

"What IDs are you talking about, comrade? Jus' open so we can hand you this paper. Nothing's gonna happen to ya."

What now? She endured and insisted on a law-abiding attitude. "It doesn't work that way! You can't go around knocking on people's doors middle of the night and demand they open up!", she was encouraging herself, trusting Petar was still safer with the door closed and those two men outside. "I can't open the door. No way! We have a mailbox downstairs.", she remembered, "throw it in there. I'll pick it up first thing tomorrow."

"Are you absolutely sure Petar is not there?" asked the younger voice again, probably trying to show dedication in front of his superior.

"No, I told you already, he's not home. He's traveling, somewhere abroad." She felt the pressure yielding slowly.

"And when d'ya expect 'im back?" asked the interrogator. She saw him scribble something in a little notebook. Then the light went out in the hallway. They whispered briefly and then she heard footsteps going down (or up?) the stairway.

"I've no idea. It's like that with him, you never know." She felt there was no one behind the door any more to hear her.

No "Thanks", or "Sorry", not even a "Good night"... Simple silence. For a while she could not be sure if they had left or were creeping around behind the door. The light didn't go on again. "They must have gone down in the dark... If they had gone down! Maybe one of them has his ear glued to the other side of the door, waiting to catch us when we say something... Maybe the other one is looking in from across the street, with binoculars!"

"Too many American suspense movies", she concluded and returned to bed. Speechless they lay, listened and felt very happy.

"We screwed them again!"

In the morning, the mailbox was empty. A draft notice had not been delivered to Petar's parents either. Nothing came in the next few days and no one came again. A few weeks later a regular mobilization summons arrived at Peter's parents' house. It seemed that his father hadn't broken his cover after all. The army still had the old address. The scheme had functioned perfectly. Mirjana went to the magistrate and informed them that he was on the road again, not able to come. Petar didn't know if he should feel good or bad about the whole issue. It had become obvious that the men who were at his home that night were not at all from the regular army, JNA.

"How did they get my address in the first place? Who were they? Where did they want to take me? Was I supposed to go and fight as a volunteer, all of a sudden and against my will, in some cleansing outfit in Croatia?" All the question remained unanswered.

Petar's patience was running thin. Mirjana's was close to running out, too.
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