Sasa Stanisic - Before the Feast

The two of them had been pig farmers at home, and knew a lot about keeping pigs. At least, they’d said so when they first came along. Pretty soon Gölow realized that they hadn’t the faintest idea of pig-farming, but they were happy with the pay, and at the time Gölow couldn’t pay all that much. On the black market. Of course the black market or it would never have worked, on account of the visas. Tolerance was the name of the game, they were tolerated here.

It’s years since Gölow thought of the two Yugos, but on such a night as this. . Anyway, the letter to Clinton. All the horrors had just come to light, the mass graves, the camps. And then the Serb said: they’ll have to bomb us Serbs. If they only ever make threats it’ll never come to an end. Only not the civilians. No one likes to think of bombed civilians. The Bosnian had no objection to that idea. Well, and then Gölow said: let’s write the President a letter. They both agreed at once, although it was meant as a joke. The Serb dictated it, the Bosnian’s German was better, so he translated it into German, then Gölow tried to guess what it meant and Barbara wrote it out in English. This went on until late at night, and in the end they hugged and wept and posted the letter, addressed to the White House. As sender’s address the Serb had given his own before he got out of the country, to lend emphasis to their request. Next day he thought that was probably a mistake, because if they see that it’s a Serb writing, he said, that’s the place that they’ll bomb first.

Gölow doesn’t think anyone ever read it. But soon there was bombing, and then that died down.

We hadn’t been too happy about the Yugoslavians. So soon after the fall of the Wall. Lack of work, and anger, and he goes giving them jobs. These days, it shouldn’t sound the way it does. The village was surprised. His own father, old Gölow, formerly a pig-breeder himself, privately and collectively, was surprised. They’d always taken Gölow for a man who thought locally. Maybe he thought too locally. Of himself. But anyway, now he’s made it to where he is. Employs thirteen men. Now, for the most part, Gölow is doing well.

Gölow in his office. Air like old socks. He puts the note with the six numbers into silent Suzi’s locker. The lad can get those pigs out when the kids arrive in the morning.

A poster of Alaska on the door. All blue, blue mountains, sky, water, polar bears. Gölow would like to go to Alaska. Money wouldn’t be the problem these days, but where would he find the time? And Barbara might — perhaps a long journey like that might not be good for Barbara at the moment.

A farm in Alaska would be quite something. With modern air conditioning you could even live on the moon. Kayaking, salmon-fishing, and the snow-covered mountains reflected in everything that can reflect them. Blue. Blue seclusion, peace and quiet. Lovely, all of it. Sleigh dogs. But that’s not what attracts Gölow. There’s kayaking here, too. There are other reflections. Reeds, there are reflections of reeds, and brown seclusion and peace and quiet.

It’s the gold. The days of the gold-diggers. The new finds only recently, in an old gold-rush village called Chicken. What the Yanks call old is a joke to people in our parts. Chicken died out, like the gold-diggers’ hopes of wealth. Seven people live there now, it’s all but a ghost village. And then a Japanese finds twenty ounces near it.

Gölow as a gold-digger in a hat, on the Klondike River. When he was a child, he read Jack London. Of course that comes of childhood. He’d never set up as a farmer there. The rents and cost of living are much higher than ours here. Those Dutch people have offered Gölow half a million. It’s ages since he had any time for reading.

We don’t mourn the dead animals.

We don’t complain of missed chances. Ghost chances.

The doctors say that Barbara’s chances are fifty-fifty.

Gölow has been pardoning a pig before the Feast ever since he took over the farm in ’92. The chosen pig isn’t slaughtered later, either, it dies a natural death. Although what does natural mean for a pig bred for slaughter? In fact it dies an unnatural and improbable death. Also, pardon sounds as if pigs were criminals. Whereas the opposite is true. An animal, as Olaf Gölow knows, is always innocent; the laws of Nature don’t understand the idea of punishment. An amnesty, more like.

With her wig on, Barbara looks a bit like that woman Governor of Alaska. And they both have greasy skin. Gölow likes that — Barbara’s skin shines. He can’t understand why she tries to correct it, but he doesn’t interfere. However, why is shiny hair thought beautiful but not shiny skin?

The pigs snore. Gölow would have liked to be the auctioneer himself tomorrow. But that lot on the Creative Committee wouldn’t hear of it. Cliquish, that’s what it is. The auction has been Zieschke’s business for years. Not that he’s particularly bad at it, but the jokes. . charming, yes, charming, but salacious too. Women, politics. The sort of joke you can make in private, perhaps, but not in front of guests! The laughter then isn’t kindly laughter, it’s the laughter of superior people and Gölow doesn’t like it. He doesn’t care for that kind of humor.

And just because Zieschke was already the auctioneer before the fall of the Wall. That’s no argument. Why does everything have to be traditional? Gölow gives work to thirteen people. Zieschke gives work to two. Gölow trains his employees, Zieschke collects old recipes for bread.

Gölow crosses the farmyard, hands in his pockets. It’s a quiet night except for the distant rumbling of thunder. Gölow imagines nights in Alaska as soundless. Simply imagining that sometimes helps him get to sleep, but not tonight.

We look forward to Olaf Gölow’s contribution to the auction. It always turns out to be something surprising. Last year he raised mini-pigs in secret. He gave his boys one each, but he also gave one to the auction. They were so cute, the bidders were beside themselves. Three hundred and sixty euros and applause, the mini-pig went to a hotelier from Feldberg. Our own bidder retired after 100 euros.

Gölow wants to suggest two weeks in Alaska to Barbara. He will organize it all. The flight, good accommodation, a jeep with four-wheel drive. A bit of driving around and sightseeing, eating salmon, feeding sleigh dogs, looking for gold.

Gölow isn’t going to sell up. Not while Barbara is alive, and certainly not to those Dutch people.

He slips into bed under the covers. He hears Barbara breathing. Gölow’s thoughts circle in a blue silence, circle in his sleep.

AND HERR SCHRAMM, FORMER LIEUTENANT-Colonel in the National People’s Army, then a forester, now a pensioner and also, because the pension doesn’t go far enough, moonlighting on the side, rubs the coin over the place on the cigarette machine that others have rubbed before him. He sniffs his fingers. They smell of lukewarm money-rubbing.

Herr Schramm puts the coin in the slot at the top of the machine, the coin comes out again at the bottom.

The machine, beige with big black buttons, stands outside the Pension Alpschnitter. The building used to be the dairy. It was sold at auction in the early 1990s. Herr Schramm had thought of bidding for it. But foreign visitors? Not in his line. He’d been able to offer hospitality now better, now worse, depending on the guest. Homemade jam for breakfast was probably on the worse side. The Alpschnitters are from these parts. Industrious folk. Rudi smokes. Herr Schramm could ring the bell. There are no lights on.

Herr Schramm puts the coin in the slot at the top of the machine, the coin comes out again at the bottom. Herr Schramm mops his brow. He’s sweating. He feels hot in the wind.