Danilo Kiš - The Attic

“So what are you going to do? You can’t live like this.”

“I’m heading off to the Island. . Do you remember that island I always used to tell you about in moments of eclipse, moments of crisis?”

“And?”

“And, and, and. .? That’s where I’ll think everything through. To kill myself or—”

“—to compromise with the ideal, with Eurydice.”

“—or not to kill myself. . Right. That’s the same thing as compromise.”

I’ve struck a deal with a farmer to tend his cows on the island for the winter. This island is called Isle. Every Saturday (save when it’s very stormy), the farmer will bring me enough food for a whole week.

Water is my only problem. I have to get used to unsalted food. I am gradually getting accustomed to it. Cum grano salis .

I live in a stone hut about five hundred yards inland. (This is the same hut I slept in five or six summers ago when I vacationed here.)

February 22

These cows are not much trouble. From time to time I unleash Argus so that he can drive them southward. To the west there is a gigantic gorge, with lush greenery along its rim, but the earth around it crumbles and slides in easily. I was told to be careful there, because two years ago a milch cow plunged down the cliff.

February 23

The island is much bigger than I had thought. At first this discovery depressed me. But now I am playing Robinson Crusoe.

And laughing.

February 24

Robinson regrets not having brought along a handbook of medicinal herbs. The callouses from the big oars — with which the cows are ferried over, one by one — remind him of the existence of another world.

Robinson pounds his forehead. He shakes out the powder from the folds of his tobacco pouch onto his blisters.

February 25

I am lying on the low, hard bed, covered with a sheepskin coat. The flames from the fireplace illuminate the eyes of my half-German shepherd napping at my feet. Outside a storm is raging. I hear the wind driving the waves against the rock face.

February 28

I have not caught anything to eat. I roamed to the south, but I did not discover any tracks in the sand.

I will have to set out fishhooks.

Beginning of March

I waited in ambush with my rifle cocked and ready. Actually this was only a game — I would never shoot birds. Much less an eagle. I was just looking through the sights. It flew out from a sheer cliff and started soaring in a great arc. At first I could still see a snake clamped in its claws. Then the eagle changed into a black dot.

Into a star.

Saturday, March 8

Today I made it down to the southernmost point of the island.

After having passed through the thick underbrush, I emerged onto a rugged, bare patch of sharp, fissured karst.

In the pitted surface I discovered deposits of sea salt. I have a hard time believing that the waves reached all the way to these heights!

I surmounted the crest with the ease of someone who had spent his entire life on rocky terrain. But I did bruise the bottom of my foot a bit when I leapt from a bluff down onto the sand of the beach. Then I continued my march southward on a little tongue of land running along the base of the cliff. At first Argus ran in front of me, but later he was dragging himself along in the footprints of his master, his tongue hanging out like a mangy bitch’s.

In the company of the first star of the evening I reached the southern extremity of the island. I gazed at the star, prepared to christen it “Narcissus,” when it suddenly faded out.

A lighthouse! A lighthouse!

Saturday (continued)

I lay exhausted on the beach and wept. Argus was whining and wheezing over me. Then he started to bark. From above, from the lighthouse, he was answered by the hoarse barking of a small dog.

On our way back the sumptuous moonlight lit up my path.

Sunday morning

When I am familiar with the entire island, every stone, every leaf — what will become of me then?

Sunday evening

One cannot live from the past .

Nor from the present. .

————.

————.

I shall leap from the hillside. . There, where the earth crumbles and slides!

Osip told me this morning that the most beautiful thing in the world is to give gifts with no thought of gain for oneself.

But I’ve started at the end. Here’s the way it was. (Immediately following my return.)

I met Osip in the crowd of people outside the cinema. He was waiting for Marija. I knew he was waiting for Marija because he was impatiently looking over his shoulder and smoking nervously.

“Marija doesn’t want to wear the fur coat,” he said as soon as we had shaken hands. “Can you imagine?”

“What fur coat? I’ve never seen her with a fur.”

“Didn’t I tell you? I bought her a fur for her birthday.”

“Oh, boy. . Where did you get that kind of money?”

He just smirked and then pulled me aside.

“Do you want to give Eurydice a fur coat for her birthday, too?”

“Don’t you know?” I asked. “I’m not with Eurydice anymore. .But, how is it that you’re giving away furs like they’re going out of style?”

“Why should I tell you, when you have no one to give one to? That’s a shame. They make beautiful gifts.”

Then he went ahead and told me how he does it. (I think I’m the only person on earth in whom Osip really confides. He believes that we’re very similar, except that I haven’t yet revealed my true nature to him.)

And this is how he does it. He goes into a department store at a time when the crowds are at their biggest (usually right before holidays) and asks to see the fur coat that he likes the best. At least this is how he bought the coat for Marija. The salesman fills out his invoice and sets about packing up the coat. That’s when Osip inquires, with pronounced politeness, “And where is the cashier, please?” “Over there. Straight ahead and then left.” Then Osip, apparently distracted and surprised, says: “Oh, right. Thanks very much.” He heads for the cash register. After that, unnoticed by anyone, he pulls from his pocket a small stamp bearing the inscription PAID. He tears off the part that stays with the cashier, returns to the counter, hands over the receipt, takes the fur, bows politely, and. .

“I would perish from fright,” I remarked.

“It’s quite simple,” said Osip, flattered.

“What do you mean, simple! If it is, then why don’t you buy yourself a suit that way, instead of freezing to death in that topcoat and rags?”

“Look, here’s the deal. There’s a difference. Your way would be pure theft and nothing else. Do you understand? Pure theft. My hands would tremble, or I would get sick and throw up. .”

“And your way?”

“Well, my way achieves a certain balance of power, if I may say so. One party is robbed, while another party is gratified. The only important thing is that the accounts balance. That an equilibrium is established. You see, the salesperson won’t be punished, because it will be determined that my stamp, although a dead ringer for theirs (I make them with just as much minute detail as a delicate, tiny engraving) is actually only handmade, and consequently counterfeit. . And Marija gets the fur coat. She’ll feel that she is adored, that she is esteemed. .”

“And how do you profit from all this? If I may use the word ‘profit’?”

“Of course you may,” replied Osip. “I am the last creature on earth who would do something without benefit to himself. . I get a great deal out of this. Above all: smugness. I think it’s obvious what I mean. I am quite pleased with myself if my voice doesn’t tremble at the moment I order the fur coat. Second: the experience. Don’t lose sight of that, my friend, the experience , the adventure. And — of course — the pleasure of seeing Marija happy: she believes in me. Appreciates me.”