Aleksandar Hemon - Best European Fiction 2013

from there, from the front row, leaning sometimes against the low banister, sometimes against the seated people, moving, as if we were walking along a dangerous mountain path, we would head toward the center where now a young man with a moustache had arranged his tripod, focusing the lens of the camera on the stage, one eye closed—a black spot, the other—a pink circle, like a director who was pleased with his film, and was following the recording from another screen, which, with an automatic regulation, seemed to be progressing independently, while next to him, behind him, to his right and to his left, on the top seats of the mezzanine—men, women, old and young, chins resting against hands, hands resting on knees, were listening, or perhaps merely trying to listen, periodically moving their heads, listening to the presentations as if without comprehending, following with eyes that expressed complete boredom or total loss, immobile, detached like the empty eye-sockets of Greek statues, as if following the speech but surrendering to its tumble, its rhythm, being carried away, I suppose, to a different place where events were occurring that were not apparent here in this hall, but which formed a muffled, omnipresent noise, an unconscious tumult like that of a city’s unremitting, underground breath; a leaflet would spiral down from one of the upper rows, someone had written Je vois aime on it, captivated we would clap and smoke, spellbound by the new word that belonged to no one, to no one side! it had no owner, you’d get up from your seat, stand up and like a lover in the night, it would be yours for a second, and we, like the Renault strikers, were the actors of history who had been called to change life…

the Chair was now inviting the last presenter of the panel, whose works were familiar to everyone,

he was holding the watch in his palm, weighing it, as it were— what was time? it was gold, no, it was nothing! nothing, but sand, nonexistence, and there were things that never passed, things that were eternal, everlasting, he was scratching his beard, smoothing it with his fingers, and turning to the woman sitting at the very end of the table, protected from the semidarkness,

so… you are this panel’s last presenter, ahem, bon, bon,

gesturing with his right hand—

shall we start?

his voice would all of a sudden rise, now he was trying to make a joke, as if it were necessary to bring some sort of merriment to the atmosphere, he not only had to preside over the panel as a small, local tyrant, giving it a more invigorating air, but also had to make it lively, favorable, effectively making use of the breaks, the indefinite moments between presentations, et c’est pas facile, one had to maintain the seriousness, the circumstances of the material and place, avoiding at the same time the boredom that such materials, such analyses might cause, proceeding as traditional narratives do, long, winding, weaving into each other, as if the same mood had been recurring in different forms and voices from the beginning of civilization, and laughter introduced a personal note, conjuring up a noble, intimate atmosphere, as a few minutes ago, during the break, in that interstice of time when the Chair approached the woman, took her hand, but then kissed her on the cheeks, whispered a few words in her ear, then kissed the hand of the other woman standing next to her, a proof of my respect, in a loud, ironic voice, stepping away, smiling, showing his red gums and a row of uneven teeth,

so… we’ll see you in a little bit… ahem!.. you look very nice today… but…

almost grunting, as if to thwart, to kill his eager exclamations, yet at the same time asserting them,

try… to speak, briefly… ahem!.. you’ll be more effective…

there is an affirmation in his emphasis, an order, that perhaps registered in my mind only later,

agreed?.. I beg of you,

he had already said everything, there shouldn’t be any surprises, everything was set right from the beginning;

we were descending, hanging on to each other, the noise, the laughter, the slogan of the day was rising from the front rows, beaming, splitting into fractions, like pigeons excreting on everything, bouncing off the screens, the red and black letters of the dancing, exhausted, crumpled, reforming sentence

L’IMAGINATION PREND LE POUVOIR!

it hung across the façade of the grand theater, from the huge columns, art is dead, and death is counter-revolutionary, really, why should one die? idiot! keep walking!

hand radios were blasting in the distance, people were whistling from the front rows, there were small red and black flags, young, always beautiful girls in the back rows, then a huge slab of stone would hit a police van, bombs, tear gas, sobbing, red swollen eyes, the long and winding siren of an ambulance,

but the crowds kept moving forward, merde !, they kept walking, with steady pace, confident, the smell of gas was everywhere, spreading underneath the trees, the sound of the spiraling helicopters, we would stop, close our mouths and noses, the photographer was taking photographs when the baton hit his head, I saw those batons, he says, but I was sure, this was France, they wouldn’t dare, he was rolling on his back, getting kicked in the face, they were rolling shutters down over the display windows, the shops were being emptied out, the batons were coming down fast, I was suffocating from the smell of gas mixed with the smoke of burning plastic and tires, we were running, people were running behind us, they kept pushing, groaning, we were going through the entrance of some building, while up above, the eternal good-for-nothings, the pensioners, the philistine officials, watched from behind their curtains, shaking their fists at us occasionally, you’ll see! tomorrow you’ll see! they were waiting for all of this to end, they’d had enough, the riots had to be crushed; leaflets were being dropped in the police station, people were being hand-cuffed, they were being thrown into dark cells, others were being beaten, punched in the stomach, in the back, in the ass, a little blood from the nose

imbeciles! assholes! castrates! freaks!… youth thus… repulsed… young people who dreamed of changing life… heh! words that would kill and curse life… me or chaos! reforms now! yes… a new program! end to injustices! no more masquerades!…

the woman got up from her place, smoothed her dark-colored skirt, touched the scarf around her neck that came down to her chest, she was thin but had wide hips, promising calves, she walked toward the podium in her red summer stiletto shoes and her toenails were painted bright red, her shins were savagely white, she tried to raise the microphone, which seemed to have the tendency to slide down the stand: every speaker had to do it, draw his or her mouth close to the microphone to check the volume, then withdraw, look right, left, toward the Chair, to whom everyone was obliged to smile a fake, automatic smile;

the woman glanced in that direction too, questioning, frowning a bit, looking behind the Chair, into the dark booth where a lamp shone and where the head of the interpreter moved in a regular cadence; after every twenty or twenty-five minutes, as the speaker changed, the door of the booth would open, a man or a woman would emerge, there were two of them, the entering and exiting persons would exchange a few words with one another, the exiting person would cover his mouth with his hand making a smoking sign, since smoking was prohibited and a nonsmoking sign with bold red letters hung on both sides of the stage

that’s what they had tried to change years ago, the revolution was dislodging cobblestones, hurling them into the air in its final throes, weaving barricades, the radios were blasting, roaring, three thousand, three hundred thousand people in the streets, the law was retreating, abandoning the square, passions were spilling over, flowing, blossoming, burning, squandered, May was marching off the avenues, love was flirting from the sidewalks, people were unanimously revolting, rebelling in a tide, overflowing their shores, putting an end to the chewing of watered-down words, to smoking opium, getting fucked over, no ringleaders, no slogans, we were on top of the wave, loose, free, completely free, dancing, clapping, a Gitanes in her mouth, a masculine girl was writing on the blackboard as if in a calligraphy class—