A brilliant spring day in Belgrade. It could be any year, but it is 1950's. It could be any city, but it is my favorite one, during its lilac season. And, it is Sunday. The streets are full of teenage girls in flaunting skirts and flat, "ballerina" shoes, their pigtails bouncing joyfully. They laugh with no apparent reason, teasing boys with their fleece growing irregularly over the pimply faces, their voices hoarse and screechy. Ah, that "awkward age"... I remember, in my teenage days, I, too, would leave home with a pretext of going to the library to end up just walking through the streets, and laughing readily from a sheer happiness of being alive. It felt as if any minute something was going to happen unexpectedly, something big and beautiful, and I was ready for it. It is spring again, the fruit trees are blooming snow-whites and delicate pinks. The whole nature is excited, bursting with a rush of life juices in all its veins. Sunday. Parents walking in their best clothes with their children hopping and bouncing along. The warm sun radiating above a big smile of understanding over that peaceful, relaxed harmony. Everybody seems content in the family circle, only I don't know what to do with myself.
From my window on the fourth floor, I am watching the street below. Couples everywhere: boys and girls, husbands and wives. All of a sudden, I realize, I cannot read or write, study, or do anything that I usually do. All that feels futile and sickening on a day like this.
Luckily, I had promised to visit my colleague Vera and help her with the English Composition test that she is about to take. Vera is married and has a little baby boy. That is one more reason why I am eager to visit her. I am getting dressed slowly and with care. Why not, there is plenty of time, anyway.
When I get there, she is feeding the baby, getting ready for our work together. I am watching her routine movements. Everything is so calm and beautiful, almost like Madonna and the Child. The baby is playful, grabbing the spoon and messing his face with the food. That amuses him, so he gurgles and giggles like a million tiny crystal bells. Finally, he is finished and I get to hold him. His firm, little body emanates warmth and that indescribable scent of the dream world full of fuzzy stuffed animals, baby powder and something magic forever lost and forgotten by adults. He plays, pulling my hair, slapping my face, then -- tired -- calms down and falls asleep in my lap. Vera lays him down in his crib and we start to work. When we are finished, I leave, and Vera closes the big, heavy family door behind me.
While walking through the streets alone, I know Vera is setting the table for the family dinner, chirping with her husband about the work we have done together. Their baby is safely asleep in his little bed, and Vera's husband, hungrily picking on fried chicken still on the stove. Vera's scolding him, lovingly, to wait till it's served on the table. They laugh and kiss.
It is warm outside and the streets are empty. The windows are open and the curtains dance in the breeze. The enticing aroma of the fresh, homemade food is floating in the air on the waves of soft music from the radio. Something warm, languid and sleepy hangs in the air. Walking down the empty street, I cannot decide what to do next. Should I go to my apartment or to a restaurant? There is nobody in the apartment, of course. In the restaurant, on the other hand, there is the same menu, with the same waitresses asking the eternal "How are you today?" and never caring for the answer. The same old skinny spinsters, seated in the corner, in their outmoded dresses and old hats with faded flowers, chewing their food carefully, as if silently counting., then noiselessly disappearing like ghosts.
The same old men are eating their usual food, complaining of arthritis and low pensions. College students, drinking beer, are noisily discussing their test results and sports.
No. I can't face that today. Not on the day like this.
If I were at home, in Novi Sad, mom would fix my favorite dish: fried chicken with new potatoes and a lettuce salad, or a veal cutlet with peas and coleslaw. I would eat to the bursting point, then take a siesta with a good book. Dad would teasingly ask me always the same "tough" questions like whose words are "Noli me turbare circulos meos" (Do not disturb my circles) or when and where did the Thirty-Year-War take place. A-a-h, Sundays at home! How far away, warm and snug it all looks now.
The day passed, somehow. I went to a movie. The next week appeared short, because I worked hard and accomplished much. Then, in a happy mood, I changed my room: moved some furniture around, changed the drapes and added a few more cushions. I also prepared the test materials for Vera.
It is Sunday again. I will see Vera in the evening. Now, I am reading Virginia Woolf's novel The Waves and cannot quit. I am listening to the radio: Tchaikovsky's suite from The Swan Lake. My favorite. Looking around, I think; I like my room. All I love is here: a miniature cactus garden, a bowl with two gold fish, and Van Gogh's Starry Night with the mesmerizing silvery atmosphere drawing me into it. Surrealistic, yet familiar, like in a dream. I do not want to leave my room, but I have to go. I don't feel like dressing either. There is no time, anyway. I snatch the books and slam the door behind me, hoping to catch Vera giving her baby a bath.
But, I am late. She is already drying and powdering his pink, plump body. After greeting me, her husband leaves the room, casting a strange, sideways look at Vera. She doesn't return the glance. There is tension like a heavy cloud hanging in the air. Hardly waiting for Mika to close the door behind him, she starts complaining in a tired, monotonous voice: " I wonder if I'll be able to function tonight. I haven't had sleep for nights. Zoran is teething, crying day and night. Mika moved out of our bedroom, so he could get some sleep. He needs to sleep, I don't.
Women don't work. It never counts." She looks at me, her eyes like in a beaten dog, with heavy dark circles underneath.
"Living with a mother in-law doesn't help either. She always meddles in our business. Always protects her son like he is a baby, not a married man. That was her idea that he should sleep in another room while Zoran is teething. She always tells him that he is a provider and the rest is a woman's job. I believe she wants to see us divorced. She acts like a wife, not a mother."
"Is there anything I can do to help? At least now? We don't need to work tonight. Maybe you should get some rest first." I try, not quite knowing what to do. "I can leave the materials for you to look through it at your convenience." Uncomfortable, I start moving towards the door, expecting Vera to give me guidance in whether to stay or go. As if not hearing me at all, she goes on deliberately:
"Just don't rush into marriage," she adds in a final tone, covering with it a whole world of petty, every-day nuisances attacking marriage like a bunch of flies a rare steak. "Marriage is not what young girls dream about," she concluded with a sigh.
When she sees me to the door, she just smiles sadly and apologetically, closing the heavy door, keeping behind it all included in the folk saying "Don't wash your dirty linen in public."
Outside, it is a mild, pleasant evening. The stars are twinkling friendly and meaningfully. At home, my book is waiting where I had left it, and the starry night in Van Gogh's painting radiates a sublime message of love and beauty in spite of the ultimate loneliness of human condition.