Aleksandar Tišma - The Use of Man

So it was that Sredoje found himself in a courtyard as big as a lake, surrounded by one-room apartments, among which Milinko’s was just another pebble on the shore. Something was going on in each of these apartments, in full view of the other tenants. Heads were sticking from windows; someone was standing or sitting at this or that door. Here everything hewed to its natural state, warm and homey: the rooms were places for the basics, for sleeping and cooking, and water was drawn in a bucket from a well whose shiny bottom could just be made out through the darkness. Sitting at the entrance door, where a three-legged stool had been placed for him, Sredoje found himself being offered warm pumpkin pie from a copper pan straight from the kitchen stove. Such elemental surroundings agreed more with his temperament — inclined not to knowledge, as was Milinko’s, but to simple pleasures — than those of the remote villa at Liman, and he became a regular visitor.

Milinko, who would have been happier near the villa’s serious books, came to terms with his role as host, for by keeping Sredoje at his side he could be sure of keeping abreast of everything he needed to know. Milinko’s mother, too, felt gratitude toward Sredoje, even as her sharp eye took in the cut of his trousers, the styling of his hair, the weave of his warm clothes, and how many layers he wore. He became her model. And when one day he happened to remark with a scowl, “Pa wants me to take German lessons,” mother and son (she stopping her machine, he raising his head from his book) glanced at each other meaningfully. “German?” asked Milinko, recovering from a rush of excitement that made his mouth dry. “But we don’t take German till next year!” In their class at school, French was the only foreign language then required. Sredoje wrinkled his nose. “It has nothing to do with school. Pa says it’s our last chance, if we want to keep on top of events.” The seamstress and her son looked at Sredoje expectantly, waiting for him to explain this half-threat, half-promise, but since nothing more was forthcoming, she lowered the needle again and resumed turning the wheel of her machine, while Milinko resumed his reading.

But that evening they sat down by the lamp in the kitchen to talk it over. Milinko proudly opened his encyclopedia and read the entry under “Germany,” an article three and a half pages long with two illustrations: a panorama of the city of Berlin and a portrait of Chancellor Bismarck wearing a pointed helmet. The next morning, they asked Sredoje who was going to teach him German. He could not tell them exactly but promised to find out. These inquiries went on for some time, until one day he brought along a piece of paper on which was written, in his mother’s studied schoolgirl script: “Fräulein Anna Drentvenšek, 7 Stevan Sremac Street, courtyard, left.” Milinko and his mother exclaimed on hearing it was in their neighborhood, but managed to hide their delight.

As soon as she could find time, the seamstress, dressed in her best, though not ostentatiously, set off, with scrap of paper in hand, down the first side street. She returned with the very best of impressions (“You know, she’s not the least bit stuck up”); nor did the cost of the lessons exceed their expectations. Before coming to a decision, Milinko, it’s true, reminded his mother of her intention to buy new bed linen, but she silenced him by saying that one good alteration could make up for the extra expense. And so Milinko and the lawyer’s son began taking private lessons in German, and he was able to ask, on equal terms with his friend, “When do you have a lesson with Fräulein? Mine is tomorrow.” The seamstress, too, was pleased to pronounce that strange foreign word and would remind her son, quite unnecessarily and contrary to her custom, “Don’t forget you have a lesson with Fräulein.” She felt, although she could not have expressed it, that, thanks to this new arrangement, the spirit of the great world had entered her courtyard quarters, putting it on equal footing with those homes that most valued progress.

This was to some extent a prophetic feeling, for by attending lessons at Fräulein’s, her son Milinko — and, for that matter, Sredoje Lazukić—was given the opportunity of meeting Vera Kroner, who came from just such a home. Fate therefore offered Vera to both of them, but, at the time, the offer was to be taken up only by Milinko.

Sredoje felt anything but attracted to Vera, who confused and exasperated him. Why did she mince along on those small, neat feet of hers, placing one in front of the other as delicately as if she were holding something between them? Why did she lower her long auburn lashes over slanting eyes, and then, once Sredoje had almost gone past, suddenly raise them to cast a swift, curious glance at him? Why did she twist her red hair into that long, narrow plait that bobbed up and down against the back of her black coat, so short it ended above her knees? He would have liked to punish her for all those artificialities, to shake them out of her, as one shakes dust from an old dress.

One winter, the second or third of their acquaintance, coming back from a lesson at Fräulein’s, he caught sight of her in a side street, pressed against the wall by the onslaught of a dozen boys bombarding her with snowballs. A hand in a white woolen mitten was raised to protect her face and neck from the cold, wet blows. She had also half lifted one leg, sheathed in a white cotton stocking and high black snow boot, pulling up her knee as though to shield, however unavailingly, the middle of her body. The snowballs were hitting not only her but also the yellow wall of the house beside which she stood, leaving irregular white imprints with dull thuds. The boys worked furiously to pick up snow and press it into snowballs, throwing them as fast as they could and uttering hoarse cries of satisfaction, like beaters rousing game. Sredoje stopped, held his breath, and looked at Vera. He was not sure whether to run to help her (after all, she was a pupil of the same teacher) or, on the contrary, to join those who were attacking such an enticing target.

Then one of the boys, perhaps the ringleader, stopped his assault, ran up to Vera, threw his arms roughly around her neck, and pressed a loud kiss on her scarlet cheek. At that, they all rushed to follow his example, and the girl was suddenly surrounded by boys jostling each other to hug and kiss her, as if she were a piece of food that each had to take a bite of quickly and run off with a mouthful. Sredoje, still standing aside, sensed in those sudden movements, those short guttural cries, the warmth and softness of the virginal body squirming and yielding under their attack. He, too, rushed up to her, pushed aside two bigger boys, and pressed his lips to her hot cheek, wet with tears, snow, and saliva. Her skin gave beneath his kiss like a sweet, ripe plum.

At that moment hands seized him from behind and pulled him away from her with a jerk. He had only time to see her slanting eyes following him, curious and frightened. He had to defend himself against the boys who had attacked him and struck out with his fists; he received a blow behind the ear and hit someone in the stomach with his elbow. His anger flaring, he flailed out all around indiscriminately, and when there was no one left, for all the boys had run away, he saw that the place where Vera had been standing was vacant, too, that she had taken advantage of the scuffle to escape.

After Sredoje recounted the episode to Milinko, the latter, in accordance with his sober, antiviolent nature, took pity on Vera and began greeting her. Since more often than not this occurred while he was walking with Sredoje, for a long time she failed to respond — which amused Sredoje. When Milinko meekly bowed his head, and the red-haired girl turned hers the other way, refusing to look at him, Sredoje would double up with laughter. Noticing this, she suddenly changed her tune and returned the friendly boy’s greeting in a reciprocally pleasant manner, being quick to notice what effect this favor had on his friend, who was not its recipient. Sredoje went on pretending that her ill will amused him; then, gradually, all three of them began to be amused by these encounters, where every gesture was so charged with meaning, or else meaningless. Finally, they could hardly wait for the next meeting, so each could observe the behavior of the others and compare it with the time before.