Danilo Kiš - The Lute and the Scars

I had just returned to Paris after the Easter holidays. I live in the 10th arrondissement and I do not suffer from homesickness. On sunny days, I am woken up by the birds, like in Voždovac. Through the open door on my balcony I hear the Serbs shouting and cursing at each other; in the early light of dawn, as they are letting their engines warm up, accordion notes come tumbling out of their tape players. For a moment I don’t remember where I am.

I pulled the mail out of the box and started listening to my messages: Anne-Marie is letting me know that a new review of my book is out. (Just for the record: I had already read it.) Then some music, and giggling; I don’t recognize any of the voices. B.P. from London informs me that he has no intention of conversing with phantoms, and I should throw this machine out with the trash. Then, giggling and music again. A certain Patricia Hamburger (“Yes, like the meat”) reminds me, if I understand her correctly, that I flirted with her after a visit to an exhibition in some gallery, and that I kissed her hand. (It’s possible.) After that, there were two or three hang-ups. And B.P. once more: if he gets this machine one more time. Then, probably grasping the fact that time is running out: “I have something important to tell you. As for this accursed little machine, throw it in the garbage. I want to speak with you, and it’s quite a serious matter. But, damn it all, I cannot talk to a machine! I’d like to know what moron convinced you to buy this marvel. And why? It’s not like you’re some traveling salesman! I mean, really, what kind of all-important business dealings do you have? And those women of yours can just be patient for a bit. Incidentally, it would be better for you to write instead of. Did you really. ” Yes, I know, that’s all fine and good, but the thirty seconds are up and I still have no idea what important matter he wanted to share with me. Luba Jurgenson conveys her apology: the last sentence of her article was cut, and so the text sounds incomplete. And then a frail voice: “This is Jurrri Golec. My wife has died. Burial Thursday at four p.m. The Montparnasse cemetery.” After that: Mme Ursula Randelis. O.V. from Piran. Kristos Arvanitidis, my friend from Thessaloniki. A certain Nadja Moust from Belgium; she would like to take a course in Serbo-Croatian; what are the requirements for registering. B.P. again, this time in medias res : “I just want to say that we’ve known each other for more than thirty years and we have still never had a serious talk. Farewell.” After which the line went dead.

At least ten days had passed since Jurij Golec had left that message, so I immediately sent him a telegram of sympathy. Then I tried repeatedly, and at different times of the day, to reach him by telephone, but no one answered. I assumed he had left town. Later I found out from Ursula Randelis, a friend of his of many years, that he had moved into Noémie’s apartment. (They had separated over twenty years ago; she lived by the Jardin du Luxembourg and he in the 14th arrondissement .) I called there a number of times, till at last I heard his faltering voice: “You’ve reached 325-26-80. Jurrri Golec and Mrs. Golec, also known as Noémie Dastrrre . Please leave your number.”

One morning he rang me up: “ Jurrri Golec here.”

“Poor Noémie. Did you get my telegram?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I thought maybe you’d left town,” I said. “It happened so suddenly.”

“Never mind. I’m calling on an important matter.”

“All right. Go on.”

“You are a sensitive man, David. You’ll understand.” (Pause)

“I’m listening.”

“You aren’t like the French.” (Suddenly he switched to Russian.) “ Ty poet . That’s not flattery. After all, I said as much in the foreword to your book. You’re the only one who can help me. Money isn’t an issue anymore. It doesn’t matter what it costs. Noémie had plenty of money. I don’t know if you’re aware of that. She was working in ethnographic films and made a pretty penny. And then there were her African sculptures. Are you listening to me?”

“Of course I’m listening to you.”

“She’d cut me out of the inheritance completely, but then right at the end she changed her will. In the hospital. She was of the opinion that I had atoned for all my sins in relation to her. She left the largest portion to a foundation in Israel that will bear her name.”

“What kind of foundation?”

“For the study of the folklore of East European Jewry. Which is apparently in the process of dying out. But what she left to me is quite sufficient.”

“So travel somewhere.”

“I have to remain here. All the formalities pertaining to the inheritance, the official inventory. ”

“At least move out of that apartment. It’s not good for you.”

“You have to help me.”

I thought maybe he wanted to borrow money until the issue of the will was settled. Or maybe that he wanted me to help him move. He had a huge library with books in every imaginable language.

“I’m at your disposal.”

At that point he burst out: “ Kupi mne pistolet .” And as if he were afraid that I hadn’t understood him, he repeated it in French: “Buy me a pistol. I can’t go on like this.”

“I’m coming to see you immediately. Are you calling from home?”

“Yes, from Noémie’s apartment. You know where it is. Fourth floor, on the left.”

He opened the door quickly, as if he had been standing there behind it the whole time. To me he seemed to be looking better than ever. There were no rings around his eyes, he was freshly shaven, and his lean face had a rosy complexion; he resembled a man who had just stepped out of the sauna. He was wearing a new, tailored suit made of lustrous fabric, a light-colored shirt, and a colorful silk tie. It was the first time I’d seen him dressed up like that. The finish on the wood of the furniture gleamed, and the windows were flung open, even though it was cool outside. Porcelain ashtrays gleamed on the table.

Right away it hit me that the African sculpture collection was missing. On the wall between two windows there was just one single female figurine with large breasts, and on the opposite wall two modern drawings were hanging in narrow black frames.

“I’ve got some good wine,” Jurij Golec said, going into the kitchen; I heard him uncorking the bottle. Then he returned.

“I’ll have one little drink with you. Otherwise, I don’t drink.”

“You must be taking tranquilizers. I did that myself when I was going through my divorce. ”

“Alas,” he said with a wave of his hand, “it doesn’t help.”

“A physician once confided in me that he took his sedatives with whisky.”

“There’s no point to that anymore,” he stated. “I need a pistol, not pills.”

“Excuse me, but you must admit that I also have a certain amount of experience in such things.” (When Ana and I separated, I had a major crisis. Jurij Golec at that time comforted me with ambiguous words in the manner of a Talmudic sage: “Aside from getting married, there’s only one other really stupid thing a person can do in his or her life: get divorced. But the greatest stupidity of all is to regret it.”) “At night I put wax balls in my ears,” I said. “And a black blindfold over my eyes. I took sleeping pills and drank. When I woke up, my bed seemed like a grave. I thought that I would never sit down at a typewriter again.”

“You’ll write much more,” said Jurij Golec. “But in my case. You once said that you were on friendly terms with some Yugoslav gangsters in Montparnasse. You could procure a pistol for me with their help. She changed her will in the hospital. She considered my behavior of late. ”