Borislav Pekic - Houses

He insisted on seeing in my hysterical offer some ulterior motive, perhaps a roundabout way of pulling the house down, or of rebuilding it so radically that its architect wouldn’t recognize it. “What the hell was all that nonsense about the portal?” (In the heat of the discussion, I had mentioned the possibility of altering the entrance door, although I’d limited myself to that wretched piece of glass above the doorway.) “Why the devil do you have to bother with a door which I go in through? You don’t have to go through it except as a guest. You’re allowed through it as a stranger. No one makes you visit me. Never mind remodeling the door-way.” And with all this in mind, his answer to my whole jeremiad was a single, simple, definite, Serbian NO.

“And as for your habit of talking about houses as if they were human beings, and usually women at that,” he added with mocking concern, “with that in mind, I advise you sincerely, as a cousin, to have your head examined!”

Quite frankly, that he called me a madman didn’t in the slightest affect me; Stefan was the crazy one not to see the exceptional nature of his house, and that was why he didn’t deserve to possess her. What worried me more was his peasantlike stubbornness, for this excruciating conversation was repeated several times, but always with the same negative outcome. What’s more, since the day of my despondent confession, his indifference toward Niké was transformed into hatred which in time would reach drastic proportions, but which already could be recognized in his coarse behavior toward her, as toward an adulteress, and a house beneath the dignity of a Negovan. To make me suffer too, he had the magnificent dome painted a bright red, so that under the sharp, stinging rays of the sun it looked as if it were bleeding. Deep under its copper skin, it was in fact dishonored. And he threatened — through mutual acquaintances, for I myself had stopped visiting him — to treat the columns with equal brutality, and, in a word, if need be, to smear the whole house with shit, to make it repellent to “that crazy Arsénie!”

However, his insolence didn’t deter me. As I was about to give up all hope for Niké, I heard that Stefan, in order to cover his dealings with the German aniline dye industry, had issued a large number of bills of exchange for vast sums which were just about to expire, and that he could neither extend nor cancel, since he had already extended them several times before, and all his funds were committed to the hilt in his gangsterish plans. I knew that I had him, and that he could no longer keep me from Niké. Through Golovan’s office I bought up his bills of exchange from all assignees willing to endorse them over to me. Even as he was devising plans to have them extended further, they were presented to him face downward so he could see both to whom they now belonged, and the answer to his misplaced hopes. At last Stefan surrendered, but not like a man, honestly and openly, as fitting between relatives and businessmen. Instead of simply selling me Niké at a moderate price, he decided upon an auction, and to that end sent me a letter which for its unparalleled effrontery I have kept to this day. Above an illegible, impatient, completely flattened signature, was written:

“Your insanity has at last infected me. I’ve come to the conclusion, on the basis of facts which I can let you have — but you alone, of course, as I have no wish to be shut up in an asylum — that this house, which you call Niké, detests me. She has tried to kill me by dropping one of her supporting lintels on me. You have probably read about it in the newspapers.” (If this was not a shaft in my direction, then it must have been Stefan’s maniacal fancy. Niké was far too dignified to make use of so crude a means as a blow on the head with a blunt instrument; if it had occurred to her to commit murder, she would most probably have poisoned Stefan by emitting toxic vapor from her otherwise benign wall coatings.) “Consequently, our life together has become impossible. I am therefore making arrangements for a closed auction to be held at 7 P.M. on March 27, 1941. Although I’m in no way obliged to you — especially since it’s you who have come between us and brought us to this — be informed that I’ll sell the house with no regard for the market price, even if it’s below the construction cost. Stefan.”

Clearly, the immediate danger posed by Niké was only the less serious half of his true reason for selling; as the owner of Y.B.C. (Yugoslav Barv Company), he was entering into important business agreements with I. G. Farben and was in need of credit and liquid funds. The idea of arranging for an auction had no other aim than to inflict harm on me, for he knew that no one could match my bid for Niké.

All the same, when I received Stefan’s announcement of the auction, I couldn’t have cared less; now at last Niké was within my reach. All the rest — Stefan’s intention of harming me with this vulgar contest, his shameless letter, his unpatriotic collaboration with the German aniline dye industry — all this had to give way before the prospect that tomorrow Niké would be mine, and I hers. So with my heart brimming over, as they say, I set off for Kosmajska Street, carrying in my saffian notebook all the house’s vital statistics (her architectural carte d’identité ), with the unchristian intention of revenging myself on Stefan for his disloyalty toward both me and Niké. Couldn’t that deceitful horse trader have telephoned me and chivalrously saved Niké from the humiliation of being fingered all over by the dirty hands of the house buyers — for all the world like some African odalisque at the slave market? And couldn’t he have saved me from the even worse humiliation of being present as a helpless onlooker, since, according to custom, such sales had to be preceded by an exhaustive viewing of the article put up for auction? I would revenge myself upon him, therefore, by laying bare certain features of the house of which even her original architects were unaware, and which of course wouldn’t be noted on my cousin’s auction inventory.

But between me and Niké, alas, stood that inopportune mob.

•

And what did you feel when you first saw the mob, Arsénie?

Fear.

Fear of what? Of the mob, of the masses?

Only partially. To tell the truth, it wasn’t fear but rather anxiety that I might be late for the auction. I couldn’t count on their waiting for me, or on Stefan’s postponing the sale until my arrival!

But why then did he ask you at all? Couldn’t he have sold Niké without you? If he wanted to humiliate you, wouldn’t he have excluded you from the contest by selling the house to someone else?

I believe it was a question of loyalty. We didn’t like but simply tolerated each other. Nor did that mutual tolerance at any specific level of danger attain a selfless clan solidarity. In exceptional instances that included even legal matters; nevertheless, there were accepted limits which only outcasts such as George’s son Fedor ignored. Because of this passive loyalty, I hadn’t gone all out earlier to force a decision through the Town Hall to get the house pulled down.

But putting the squeeze on bills of exchange was permissible? To drive him into a financial dead end like a dog — that you could do?

That was business. Nobody stopped him from paying them off!

So you believe, then, that you didn’t hate the mob taking part in that procession?

Perhaps I did hate them, but only in the sense of their being an obstacle in my path, just as I would have been frustrated by a moat or a fortified wall. I had to be at Stefan’s at a definite time!

So from the beginning it was only the will to break through the barrier which urged you on?