Borislav Pekic - Houses

From the front door came the adagio notes of a soft tune, followed by the shrill ringing of the bell, which in no way made me more disposed to welcome visitors. I was of two minds as to whether to respond at all. But I didn’t have the nerve not to. Everyone knew that because of my condition there was always someone in the house, and I was afraid that my not answering the door would be interpreted as if something had happened to me, particularly if it was Mr. Mihajlović, our most kind and attentive neighbor whom Katarina had prevailed upon to drop by in her absence.

It was indeed Mr. Mihajlović standing on the threshold. I peered through the glass peephole as through the eyepiece of one of my binoculars, not daring to let him into the hall lest my clothes puzzle him and start him thinking, but deeming it even less advisable to send him away rudely. So I had to find a means of reassuring him, and if possible, of getting rid of him. I thanked him for his attention and told him that I was all right, and that his kind offices weren’t needed because I had to lie down for a while. I was fully conscious that the more I talked, the greater the risk that the dark, portly, unkempt man in a worn vest pulled over striped pyjamas would conclude that I was not all right. First, because my voice had begun to tremble and break at just the wrong moment, and because I chose words which were more and more the emaciated synonyms for what had already been said; and also because I had begun to tap my fingers on the wood in apprehension as well as irritation. Finally, I said that I was going to bed at once, that I was undressed, that in fact I had been lying down when he had rung. At last I forced him to apologize fervently for disturbing me, which apologies put a stop to the complicated explanations that I could no longer sustain. When at last he had gone, and I had shut the brass cover of the peephole, I was as exhausted as if I’d been through another heart contraction.

I put in my wallet the documents which would prove my legal ownership to Simonida’s tenants, who up to now had dealt only with Katarina and Golovan. Then I clipped my pince-nez to my vest pocket, figuring that after such strict isolation I would certainly be surprised and upset by something or other, perhaps even revolted, and looked for my pocket watch — not the Longines which I used every day, but the gold one engraved with the threefold tower of sapphires which was the property owner’s symbol.

All I had to do now was to pick out a pair of binoculars that would slip easily under my coat. The Mayer which I most often used because it was light as a feather — I could not consider because it was too cumbersome. The small Mayer, the 6×30, was too heavy, and the artillery binoculars were clad in an iron suit of armor. The Zeiss prismatic 8×80 was just right in size and weight, but its range finder was damaged. And of course in this instance none of the single-barreled ones would be of any use. It is true that one or two of them would be easy to carry: some were even collapsible — their rings could be pushed into each other like the soft folds of a caterpillar — but unfortunately they would have attracted attention by their artificial appearance, and that would have caused more harm than good. Going over the whole collection, I suddenly remembered that Katarina had just what I needed. The opera glasses which we had bought in Budapest were a beautiful little instrument made out of ivory or some darker imitation, with a chrome rim around the bone body of the eyepiece and the lens and, what was most important, a light-colored handle which, while normally folded like a carpenter’s rule, could be mounted on the body between the two barrels, and so make the whole instrument much easier to manipulate.

Of course, these pygmy-size binoculars were not particularly strong; one might even say that they were short-sighted. But since the objects which I wanted to bring nearer would hardly be farther away from me than a theater box from the stage, a longer range would have been of little use; and there was the added advantage that along with the handle it could be stuffed into an ordinary cloth bag. The only difference was that the theater box would be in the street — perhaps some bench in Kalemegdan Park, if it were near enough to Paris Street and if, of course, it were sufficiently solitary for such a tender meeting, since onstage across the street would be playing only one heroine, my Simonida. That was why it was wise to take the binoculars. When I got there I would want to look her over from close up. But my eyes, wearied by those forlorn buildings on the left bank of the Sava, would never allow me to go right up close to her intimately and examine her — not only to look at her but to scrutinize her, just as at the first meeting after a separation one takes one’s wife’s face between one’s palms and examines it at length, comparing it with hesitant, nostalgic memories.

However, what I was really going to find I couldn’t possibly foresee. Although I strove sincerely, while making my final preparations to go out, not to think about Simonida, nevertheless from time to time I found myself letting my imagination run on, ordering incomplete and sometimes hardly formulated suppositions, as if cutting from an enchanted picture book damaged photographs which only partially realized all the possibilities passing through my mind. Who knows, perhaps I would find her firm, solid body decrepit, her face wrinkled and lined with creases; perhaps she had lost her freshness and inspiration. Well, all right, everybody gets old, houses too have their life span, and not even the best of care can save them from eventual decay; but Simonida could not possibly be in that condition yet. Simonida wasn’t yet fifty; next December she would be only forty-three. That isn’t old for a house. It’s the prime of life.

Why, then, was she being pulled down?

That was what I had to establish. I’d become accustomed to this problem through my experience with the two-storied Katarina. It was torn down for reasons which had nothing to do with the house itself. For just as people who have done nothing at all wrong are got rid of simply because they stand in the way of something, so houses too are destroyed because they impede somebody’s view, stand in the way of some future square, hamper the development of a street, or traffic, or of some new building. Yes, even though they are quite innocent — still in good repair and often, alas, in their prime — houses suffer execution because they hinder some more elegant construction, a building with a stronger spine, a building which lays claim to their place, their site. So Simonida didn’t have to be too old or fatally, incurably ill, for the decision to do away with her.

But what if she was? What if she were horribly ill — it couldn’t be old age — and it had been hidden from Arsénie Negovan? Arsénie had been told: Simonida is quite all right, you should see how firmly she stands, how superior she holds herself among all those youngsters, all those empty-headed upstarts of concrete, steel, and glass. Modern buildings have outgrown her but they cannot outstrip her. What mixture was she painted with that the color needed renewing so rarely? What was she built with to be so resistant? But now she has been stricken down by some mysterious disease, she’s falling apart, her stone is porous and disintegrating, her lintels are cracking, her walls crumbling, her stucco peeling like burnt skin, the wood at her heart splitting; nobody has lived in her for a long time, the occupants had to be evacuated so as not to be buried alive. But Arsénie was told — for he could see that Simonida’s rents weren’t coming in — that her tenants were in financial difficulties, and that no money should be expected from them for a long time to come; but you don’t need money, do you, Arsénie? — you collect houses, not money, you’re an owner of property, not a moneylender.