The Attic (12 page)

Right after these notes, I started to write:

Tonight we had a furious storm. The raindrops banged against the windows somewhere on the third floor all night long. When the wind died down, all you could hear was the rain generally pouring down and the raspy coughing of a child whose bed was located somewhere below. That must be the little girl with tuberculosis who plays with her rag dolls on the dark, filthy stairs all day long . . .

I couldn
’
t get to sleep. So I relit the candle and pulled out the little sheets of paper I had used to make
The Attic
. Every time I touched it, the manuscript fell open to the section that I had christened in my mind
“
Bay of the Dolphins.
”
This passage reminded me of a postcard that I had sent Igor almost a year ago:
“
Best wishes for a Happy New Year from the Islands of the Coconut Palms.
”
I also remember sending him a
“
Poem of the Coconut Islands
”
along with the card. Now I had to decide whether I should include this poem, in the original language of course, in
The Attic
:

“
You
’
ll definitely end up including that in
The Attic
,
”
commented Igor when I translated the final stanza for him.

I clearly recall my answer to him:

“
I
’
ve been thinking about it.
”

Igor just repeated,
“
I
’
m willing to bet that you
’
ll put it in.
”

The rasping cough and the crying of the child on the fourth floor didn
’
t stop. These sounds were merely overwhelmed from time to time by the rain striking the windows and the muffled bursts of wind. (To spite Igor, I shall not add this poem to the book. That
’
s why I tore it to shreds and chucked it into the straw. That way I
’
ll never be able to include it in
The Attic
.)

Thus unburdened, I abandoned the manuscript. Leaving my candle burning, I stared at the ceiling. Sleep simply would not come. So I got up, draped my army-issue blanket over my shoulders (I slept completely dressed) and tiptoed slowly down the rickety staircase to the ground floor. Was it by any chance pangs of conscience that impelled me to do so?

I struck a match down there and looked around for the tenant register. In the dark frame I saw at first only the flame from the match on the smudged glass . . . Then, as I drew closer, I initially saw only my likeness, the ghost of my likeness. Within that dark frame, which the breath of time had coated, the outlines of my form in the match
’
s trembling flame seemed so hopeless, so selfish, so lost. I suddenly realized, and not without revulsion, that my face was the very thing that had concealed the entire attic, and the whole six-story world, from me until now. Despairing at this thought, I let the match burn my fingers. I didn
’
t even drop it when I felt my stomach knotting in pain. It hurts like hell when the flame burns down to your fingernails.

Then I lit a second match and held it up between myself and the heap of characters waiting to receive the grace of being given form.

GROUND FLOOR

MEZZANINE

SECOND FLOOR

Once again the match burned my fingertips and I tossed it away nervously. The glowing tip ricocheted off the wall in a small arc and then went out with a brief sizzle. At that point I noticed the dampness and mud that had been spreading over the stairs of late. I wanted to leave, to go back, but from somewhere the wind carried the plaintive howling of a train lost in the night. Soon the clattering of the wheels, now somewhere close by, reached my ears. My God, I thought with a shudder, because of my selfishness I never got around to writing the most beautiful poem of all! The song of trains lost in the night. The ballad of train wheels! And every night I drifted off with that song on my mind . . . The great white trains brought me sleep . . .

Lord, I
’
ve been living in that attic as if on another planet!

Have I mentioned anyplace that my attic was close to the train station? No, I didn
’
t say that anywhere. Don
’
t the trains themselves bear a bit of the blame for this situation of mine? Didn
’
t they poison me with vast expanses, stars, and selfishness?

Once again I struck a match and illuminated the fourth floor.

Yes, Alek. Our Mr. Alek. His little daughter has a name like a dream: Sanja.

His wife died recently. A year or two ago. I remember the cleaning lady telling me something about it. For a long time they had been unable to have any children, and then the woman went off to a sanatorium and that seemed to have helped or at least that
’
s what people said, but maybe there was another factor involved (but one should never speak ill of the dead), and she gave birth to a daughter, but it
“
wasn
’
t meant to be
”
and the woman died after the delivery.

A damp, dark green stain spread across the two vertical lines through the name of the deceased, sucking up the ink.

Ever since then, Uncle Alek has been drinking, and fading away.
“
He who drinks in silence kills himself in silence,
”
as the cleaning lady said of him.
“
Such is life. It grabs people by the soul and doesn
’
t let them breathe.
”

I scanned the register floor by floor.

In the final glow of the match, I cast a quick glance at the listing for the attic and discerned Igor
’
s name at once. (It
’
s high time that I added my own name to the register. Igor might have to face some unpleasantness on my account, otherwise.)

“
Billy Wiseass,
”
I said half audibly.
“
Astronomer. Perpetual student. Student-vagabond. Stargazer. Sleepwalker!
”

After my return to the attic:

As I went down the stairs this morning I noticed a rusty weathercock that the wind had toppled into the courtyard overnight.

Outside the entrance I ran into my neighbor Alek.

“
How
’
s your little daughter?
”
I inquired.

“
Thanks for asking,
”
he said.
“
She
’
s better this morning. No doubt she kept you awake last night. You know, in these dilapidated old buildings the walls are so thin they
’
re almost transparent.
”

He was loaded. His breath reeked of
š
ljivovica
.

“
Not at all,
”
I replied.
“
I didn
’
t hear a thing. I was pretty tired and drifted right off. The murmur of the rain lulled me to sleep.
”

“
But I saw a light on at your place, around three, and so I thought that you were unable to sleep on account of my little girl. This infernal whooping cough is strangling the kid and the neighborhood alike . . . But, if I may ask, what were you working on all night? You must be studying for your exams!
”

“
I
’
m writing
The Attic
,
”
I said by force of habit.

“
Nice, nice,
”
he said.
“
Just don
’
t forget the little people who live downstairs from you . . . And don
’
t ruin your eyesight with the light from that candle. I have a forty-watt lightbulb. I can give it to you. I don
’
t need it.
”

“
Thanks,
”
I said, embarrassed,
“
but I write by candlelight . . . How can I explain . . . So that I create the right atmosphere. You see? It
’
s like when a blue lightbulb goes on in a train compartment . . .
”

“
Then write by daylight. You can see the attic and the courtyard better then . . . I don
’
t know if you can get a good look at the garden from your window . . . But I
’
ve gotten carried away, and I have to head off to work . . .
”

He shook my hand and hurried off.

“
Anyway, come by for the lightbulb!
”
he called my way in the entrance hall.
“
I
’
m telling you! This business with the candle . . .
”

For a moment I remained standing in front of the building, staring into the windows. The morning sun had already begun to dry the gray, damp walls so that only dark spots remained, from which fine, transparent steam was rising. White laundry, soaked by rain and by sun, waved lazily as it hung on the line stretched between the upper floors of the buildings. Pigeons on the iron balustrade along the balcony vigorously flapped their wings. Somewhere on the fourth floor a child was crying. Then this was overpowered by the singing of a young woman. I tried to determine which window the singing was coming from. The woman sang in a youthful morning voice:

Then the fluttering curtain on the fourth floor moved to the side and the woman flung the window open wide. Her upper arms shone in the sunlight and her light-colored chintz blouse allowed her breasts to come into view as she bent forward, reaching for the shutters.

When she caught sight of me, she recoiled and lowered her voice a little. Then she stuck out her tongue at me and pulled the curtain shut again. I watched the folds of the curtain billow, and the only words I could pick out from the rest of the song was:
break of day
.

Suddenly the entire building began to sway on its foundations, just like the curtain. I lowered my eyes, because I sensed that the woman behind the curtain was watching me.

As I walked away, I was able to make out the second part of the song as well:

BELGRADE

NOVEMBER 1959
–
MAY 1960

Gnohti saeuton
: This is garbled version of the precept
Gnothi seauton
(Greek), meaning “Know thyself.” It was inscribed above the portico of the Temple at Delphi.

from the first arson
: Here Kiš has made a rhyming pun in the Serbian genitive case, using the phrases
prvog hica
(from the first
hitac
, or shot) and
prvog lica
(from the first
lice
, or grammatical person).

You’re wearing a new dress
: Starting with this paragraph and continuing for over four pages to the phrase “Adieu, mon prince Carnaval,” Kiš is quoting/paraphrasing from the 1934 novel
The Magic Mountain
by Thomas Mann. See the chapter entitled “Walpurgis Night,” especially beginning on page 398 in the most recent English translation by John E. Woods (Knopf, 1995). While Mann writes in a mixture of French and German, Kiš uses French and Serbian. In addition, Kiš does not quote the entire section, just certain substantial passages.

life’s orphans
: The Serbian term employed here is
siročad života
, which is indeed best translated as “orphans of life.” But in the novel by Mann, the German phrase used in the midst of the long conversation in French is
Sorgenkinder des Lebens
(
Der Zauberberg
, Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1960. p. 309), an expression that admits of many translations. Woods uses the term “problem children” in the quoted translation, but I have deviated from him in this place to better follow Kiš’s version. Previous translators of Mann have rendered the phrase as “life’s delicate children” or “worry-children of life,” while more modern but overly clinical renditions might evoke the idea of “high-needs children.” Had Kiš not used a Serbian phrase that is fairly clear, this translator would indeed have concurred with Woods’s rendering, as his chosen term allows both spiritual and physical connotations.

some secret dream
: An untranslatable play on words. In Serbian,
san
means dream, while
skrit
is the past participle of the verb
skriti
, which means to hide.

kakaform
: This may refer to an imported chocolate drink powder from northern Europe, but it might also be another of Kiš’s neologisms. In that case the word would seem to be a mixture of the Serbian terms
kloroform
,
kaka
, and
kakao
, signifying chloroform, excrement, and cocoa, respectively. The unpleasant associations are quite plausible given the narrator’s attitudes and actions toward the female character in question.

But don’t get formal with me
: Serbian has two forms of the singular pronoun “you.” The informal form (
ti
) is used for close friends, family members, and children, while the formal form (
vi
) is used for adult acquaintances or strangers. A more literal translation of the narrator’s statement would be: “But don’t say
vi
to me. You can see that I say
ti
to you.”

Žilavka
: A famous variety of Balkan wine.

Hosszú lépés
: A Hungarian drink consisting of wine mixed with soda water.

Vugava
: Another famous variety of Balkan wine.

Fruška Gora
: A small mountain range in northern Serbia between Belgrade and the capital of the Vojvodina, Novi Sad.

Dubrovnik Madrigal
: The title of a poem by the beloved Serbian writer Jovan Dučić (1874–1943).

Ohrid
: A large lake on the border of Macedonia and Albania.

Gračanica
: An important Serbian Orthodox monastery in the southern Serbian province of Kosovo, founded in the fourteenth century.

Prince Marko
: Famous character from Serbian (and Balkan) history and folklore, he was known in Serbian as Kraljević Marko. Marko lived in the late fourteenth century and his reputation paints him as a combination of freedom fighter and rogue.

Scutari
: A port located in northern Albania, close to the border with Montenegro, this old city figures prominently in Serbian history and legends.

Mother Jevrosima
: Prince Marko’s mother.

Banović Strahinja
: Medieval Serbian leader in the era of the Ottoman takeover (late fourteenth century).

Lazar
: Prince Lazar (1329–1389), the leader of the weakened Serbian state who perished at the famous Battle of Kosovo.

Vuk Mandušić
: A fierce Serbian warrior in the influential epic
The Mountain Wreath
by Petar Petrović Njegoš (1813–1851).

Simonida
: “Simonida” is a poem by the highly regarded Serbian writer Milan Rakić (1876–1938).

Egg of Columbus
: An expression referring to a difficult puzzle with a simple solution. Kiš could be making a link to the Serbian-American inventor Nikola Tesla, who called his presentation on electricity by this name at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893.

giving away furs
: More wordplay. The narrator uses the words
bunda
and
bundeva
, so that a literal translation of the sentence would read: “But, how is it that you are giving out furs like they were pumpkins?”