Danilo Kiš - The Attic

“And is that all?”

“What else could you want?” he replied, almost offended. “Besides, this makes it easy for me to endure all the misfortunes in my personal life. I know that I can get dressed up whenever I want to, but I walk around in rags. Do you get it? I don’t want to, but I can. Thus I have proof of the fact that I am respectable — and powerful!”

“But,” it occurred to me, “why doesn’t Marija want to wear the fur coat? Did she get wind of some of this?”

“I told her about it.”

“You ruined everything by telling her,” I pointed out. “Don’t you realize? She could even file charges against you.”

“That’s why I told her about it. So that she would be in a position to accuse me. Maybe she’s speaking to a cop at this very moment. I gave her a few days’ time to mull it over. What I’m interested in is a completely independent decision on her part.”

“Even so, I don’t think you should have told her how you came by that fur coat. You could have made something up. For instance. .”

“I know,” said Osip, as crestfallen as a child. “I don’t know how to tell a lie. See — I’m incapable of lying when I love someone. I was almost weeping when I urged her not to ask me where I got the fur coat, because I just can’t lie, but she was obstinate. Finally I admitted everything to her. But earlier I had resolved to punish her. I would saddle her conscience with both the coat and me.”

“Isn’t that cruel?” I asked.

“So anyway — how are you amusing yourself these days?” asked Osip.

“I am writing The Attic ,” I said.

We were walking toward the fortress along the edge of the Danube because Osip had resigned himself to the fact that Marija wasn’t going to show up for their date.

“That’s bound to be some kind of neo-realism,” he said. “Dirty, slobbery children, and laundry strung up in the narrow gaps between the buildings of some suburb, and dockside dives, shit-faced railroad switchmen, hookers. .”

“There’s some of that in it,” I responded. “After all, the title itself suggests as much. But it remains a horribly self-centered book. . Do you want to hear more? I have a few notes with me. (You know, I don’t like to leave my papers at the mercy of the rats back in the attic). . Billy is too stupid for anything other than ‘Let me tell you a story!’ But I’ve always valued your opinion. .”

“Actually, how is Billy? I haven’t heard anything about him in ages.”

“I threw him out,” I said. “ With great difficulty .”

“But there was no point in doing that,” he replied. “He broke up with Marija, eh?”

“Who knows with him?. . But let’s pop into this place here, so I can read to you from my notes. If that’s okay with you.”

We sat down in a corner, next to the stove. Then I recalled that I had sat at this same table several years before with Marijana. It had been winter. I remember that well. About four in the afternoon. There wasn’t a single person in the pub. Marijana’s eyes were misting over. We were drinking cognac. And sneaking kisses.

“Osip, do you remember Marijana? The one with long blonde hair?”

“Yes,” said Osip. “I think I remember her. It seems to me that you introduced us one time. . Why do you ask?”

“We drank gin at this table one winter. She was wearing a black knit sweater with a collar of white silk.”

“I don’t get it,” declared Osip. “Is this a segue into your reading?”

“No. It’s just. . A memory.”

“Let me hear these jottings of yours already. I liked what you read aloud to me last time at your place in the attic. But. . I’m intrigued to see how you’ll bring all that business in the attic to its conclusion. Especially what you’ll do with Eurydice. . And with Billy Wiseass. (I’m willing to swear that’s Igor!)”

We finished our cognac, and I started reading to him:

I listened to invisible trains weeping in the night and to crackly leaves latching onto the hard, frozen earth with their fingernails. .

“Go on,” commanded Osip. “I like the beginning.”

Everywhere packs of ravenous, scraggly dogs came out to meet us. . They would accompany us mutely in large packs. But from time to time they would raise their somber, sad eyes to look at us. They had some sort of strange respect for our noiseless steps, for our embraces.

“I think you’ve already heard this part,” I said. “I’d be better off reading you something from ‘Walpurgis Night’. .”

“No, please don’t. That bit is repulsive. Don’t you find it truly revolting?”

“That’s why I want to read it to you. To see just how repugnant it is. I need a sounding board. Understand? For me there is at the moment no place more revolting than the Bay of Dolphins. I’m sick of magnolias and lutes and farces. .”

“That,” continued Osip, “is because you’re going from one extreme to the other. Isn’t life somewhere in between? Incidentally, perhaps I’m wrong here. I’m judging on the basis of those fragments that you read to me last time at your place in the attic. I liked them all at that moment, but — still — doesn’t real life, realitas , lie somewhere between your attic and your Walpurgis Night?!” That evening, after I had parted ways with Osip, I took a stroll through the outlying districts of the city to breathe in a little authentic atmosphere. Along the way I thought about Osip’s words. Isn’t my novel The Attic really just a framework? A framework for what?

Afterward I returned to the attic. I lit a candle and began writing. I was convinced that I wouldn’t show this passage to Osip. I wouldn’t want him to notice how uncertain I was, how hesitant.

This is what I wrote below the earlier note, which ran:

I do not like people who squirm their way out of every situa- tion like earthworms. Without scars or scratches. Comedians.

Beneath that I had recorded the following a few evenings ago when it became obvious that Eurydice would not be coming back:

Agnosceo veteris vestigia flamme.

Enriched by a single scar.

And then:

Today I read in the paper that “Insectomort” is guaranteed to exterminate all types of vermin and rats.

Buy “Insectomort” and dispense with the ornamentation that cockroaches bring.

DETHRONE THE ATTIC!

Warm it up with the sun;

Examine the cracks in the wall in radiant sunshine.

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 :

Tanah airku aman dan makmur

Pulau kelapu jang amat subur

Pulau melati pudjaan bangsa