Danilo Kiš - The Attic

Sedjak dulu kala

Melanbai-lambai njiur dipantai

Berbisik-bisik radja k’lana

Memudja pulau nan indah permai

Tanah airku!

“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

Radev Katarina, Building superintendent Born1899

Flaker, Anton, engine-fitter1907

Flaker Marija, housewife1911

Flaker Marija, student1932

Flaker Ivan, schoolboy1939

Katić Stevan, railway traffic superintendent1910

Katić Anica, housewife1915

Poparić Djuro, railroad switchman1928

Poparić Stana, office assistant1913

Poparić Ljiljana, schoolgirl1945

Poparić Mašinka, schoolgirl1947

Poparić Jadranka, child1954

Poparić Jadranko, child1954

MEZZANINE

Popov Melanija, typist1934

Avramović Jovan, railroad engineer1926

Avramović Slavica, schoolgirl1949

Avramović Danica, housewife1926

Avramović Goran, elementary school pupil1950

Avramović Mirjana, elementary school pupil1951

Avramović Ljiljana, child1955

SECOND FLOOR

Angelov Kosta, engineer, retired1889

Angelov Smilja, office assistant1900

Kifer Albina, midwife 1918

Žakula Bogdan, tram conductor1900

Žakula Pavle, railway traffic superintendent1930

Žakula Melanija, student at the teachers’ academy1935

Solunac Dušan, railway conductor1901

Ilić Tihomir, policeman1931

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.

Kovač Alek, stoker1912

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.

(Kovač Anita, housewife19.)

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.)

Jurin Igor, student1935

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

After my return to the attic:

1) Copy out the list of tenants

2) Make inquiries about each one of them individually with the cleaning lady

3) Buy Sanja some chocolate (with hazelnuts) and oranges

4) Go befriend the tenants

5) Dismount from this planet.

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 šljivovica .

“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. .”