A Guided Tour Through the Museum of Communism

II A COMMUNIST WITH STYLE

And who the fuck are you? Why are you staring at Koki? Have you never seen a talking parrot before? A singing parrot? A swearing parrot? Well, then you should visit a Web site called YouTube—there are lots of parrots there. One of Koki’s favorites is Menino, singing the “Queen of the Night” aria from Mozart’s Magic Flute. Menino’s performance is absolutely outstanding, Koki feels very proud as he watches him on the computer in the lobby of the hotel. But Koki also enjoys watching people watching Menino and their astonishment at seeing the green bird sing Mozart. You think that monkeys are your closest relatives. But can they sing? The hell they can! They merely shriek; that’s the closest they come to it. No, we parrots are the closest to you people for at least several reasons: First, we can sing and we can talk. Besides, you people often behave like parrots yourselves, especially here, in the presence of bigwigs. You imitate us, repeating whatever any of the dignitaries say as if it were sacrosanct. It is funny to see how some people from the president’s various summer entourages here in the Croation president’s summer residence listen to and repeat every word, as if they believe they can benefit from it. But I guess this is how every royal household functions, with its parrots and hawks, cats and dogs, cows and sheep—the entire menagerie. Sometimes Koki entertains himself by guessing who is what in that coterie—in the “court camarilla” as the Marshal, the former president of the former Yugoslavia, used to say with contempt. Although, where would the Marshal himself have been without his camarilla?

Oh, Koki can see that you are a tourist and he can guess that you are here because of the Marshal. And you expect Koki to tell you stories about him, yes? Yes. Koki used to be part of the Marshal’s zoo here on one of the fourteen islands in the Brioni archipelago that he used as his summer residence during his reign. At that time, of course, Koki did not need to entertain people like you. Oh, no! You bloody tourists could not get anywhere near this place. Koki must say that he performed for a very different kind of public then—for heads of state, aristocrats, and movie stars, no less. To give you an idea, suffice it to say that the Marshal received here Eleanor Roosevelt and Queen Elizabeth, as well as Jacqueline Kennedy, Che Guevara and Fidel Castro, Haile Selassie and Indira Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru and Nikita Khrushchev, Josephine Baker and Princess Margaret—not to mention Hollywood film stars! And in the times before Tito, the archipelago was visited by Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Kaiser Wilhelm II, along with aristocrats from Vienna and Budapest, Munich and Berlin. Those were the days…

But now, although the presidential residence is still here, and every new president comes regularly to enjoy it (that has not changed), the country has somehow shrunk, and there are not many such distinguished visitors coming here anymore. Either the last two presidents were not as fascinating as the old one, or the shrunken country is no longer very important, Koki can’t tell. He only knows that, because the new shrunken country has a democracy instead of a dictatorship now, tourists can visit and stare at Koki, expecting to be entertained. Nowadays, Koki is just a tourist worker, and he makes his living by chatting in five languages. But he is not stupid! In the last twenty years Koki, too, has changed: It is one thing to be a spoiled clown—another to be a tourist attraction. Koki politely greets visitors and Koki politely swears, yes, that’s true. But if they want more, Koki wants more food in return! It is called bribery, but corruption is a very popular, recognized, and even rewarded way of making your living in this new state. Ah, I see that I have to explain this: We also had corruption in the former Yugoslavia, but it was indirect; it had to do with who knew whom, while now the new, additional element is money.

So, if you feed Koki some nuts (which you are not supposed to do) he might decide to tell you a story or two. Agreed? Well, then we are all set.

You must have read a few things about the Marshal, at least in your guidebooks. There are over a thousand books written about him—too many, and not too good, I hear. And what can you read in them? That he was one of the greatest historical persons? Or perhaps a dictator in Yugoslavia, a country ruled by the Communist Party, which collapsed some twenty years ago in a spate of bloody wars? Why, you ask? Because every little nation wanted to have its own little nation-state! Imagine, if there had been more than one parrot on this island—Perhaps we, too, could have asked for independence? Terrible that these wars in the nineties took so many lives, some two hundred thousand, they say—but that is another story. As is the Marshal’s historical role in all of it. About which Koki, naturally, knows too little, because he is just a little birdie.

Let Koki save you the trouble and simplify what is usually written about the Marshal in guidebooks, textbooks, history books, and the like: It is said that he was a locksmith by profession; he was born into a poor peasant family; and he ended up as a prisoner in Russia during World War I. He became a member of the Communist Party in Yugoslavia in the thirties and fought his way up—fought against fascism as commander of the partisan army, when Yugoslavia was occupied by the Germans and Italians during World War II. Afterward, he finally became president—once he had carried out a Communist revolution, of course—and, in the best tradition of such states, at the same time held the highest position in the army as well. The Marshal also founded the so-called nonaligned movement in the sixties. All these African and Arab countries, offended by their colonizers, they loved him, yes they did. At the time one could take for granted that his own people loved him too, even though he was an autocratic ruler. But that is not so certain any longer; many dispute that belief. Mind you, all this you can see at the museum building nearby; there is an exhibition of photos in his glory! But Koki doesn’t like this museum; it is a bit morbid. The whole ground floor is filled with stuffed animals! Poor souls were given to him and died soon after arrival… Ah, life is a whore and then you die.

But to all this, Koki says that facts are very boring! They tell you nothing about his character, his habits and passions, his five (or more?) wives. How shrewd he was, how very intelligent, and also how very cruel. How terribly vain and deluded, too. Yes, there are so many more things to know about such a person.

Koki could tell you more about the Marshal because he knew him well. For many years they used to spend hours and hours together over the summer, talking or just contemplating in silence the beauty of the place. And Koki could tell him everything; Koki was a fearless little birdie. After all, why should such a big, historical persona be afraid of Koki’s words? Of anybody’s words, for that matter? Later Koki understood that being a bird was to his advantage. Had he been a man, his words might have landed him in prison! Yes, that had happened, even with his good friends. You don’t agree with him? Off to prison with you! It was that simple.

But though Koki lived in a cage then (and now), and therefore was a kind of prisoner himself, he was free to say whatever he wanted! It is a contradiction to even think about any kind freedom if you are living in a cage, yes. But at least the Marshal would let you think that living in that cage was your own choice. Indeed, he spent his life doing just that, making some twenty million Yugoslavs believe they were free. Well, their cage was more colorful than others of their kind, but it was still a cage. Yet people believed him, as did Koki-birdie, too.

After the advent of democracy, every few years another old bugger comes along and takes up residence here. Mercifully, parrots live much longer than men, which means that Koki knows the presidents who have come to the island since the Marshal’s time, both of them so far. He knows how different they are from the old one—and how power makes them more similar to him than you would believe. To tell you the truth, by the time Koki adjusts to the new, elected president in the Brioni residence (that is the formal difference between the Marshal and these new guys) he is replaced by another. All too soon! It is more comfortable to look at the same face and tell the same jokes for decades, as before, yes? The first to come after the Marshal was his former Communist general-turned-nationalist, an unpleasant, arrogant man with a twisted mouth. Being too lazy to learn new names, this little birdie had high hopes that the man would stay long enough in power for Koki to get used to him. The man himself had even higher hopes! Indeed, Twisted Mouth demonstrated the same intention as the Marshal: to stay in power forever. However, he was far less charming. He suffered from an inferiority complex and went so far as to even order an almost identical uniform as the Marshal’s. It was white, like his, with golden epaulettes and lots of medals—he, too, had decorated himself, of course. But in spite of all his efforts, he looked somehow pompous in it. Twisted Mouth was just an imitator, like Koki the parrot, ha ha! Poor man, he almost managed to get elected president for life, but the problem was that his life did not last as long as he surely had expected.

Once, when Twisted Mouth brought some important guests to see him, Koki pretended to be just a stupid parrot and screamed right into his face: “Long live Comrade Tito! Long live Yugoslavia!” People here used to shout such slogans on different public occasions. Like during the Marshal’s long speeches, a rally organized for his birthday, a May Day parade, or maybe a visit by some foreign dignitary. I could tell that Twisted Mouth hated Koki for that. He seriously lacked a sense of humor. When Koki shouted like that, Twisted Mouth would go pale in the face and point at Koki, his hand shaking with rage. Ooooh… Koki would get reeeeeally scared. Koki admits that he’s got a loose tongue and tends to make jokes, pretends to be stupid, teases people, even makes them nervous by telling the truth sometimes. That time Koki survived only because he is a popular tourist attraction. One of the exhibits, like the remains of a Roman villa nearby.

Koki did not like Twisted Mouth at all! Maybe because that stuffed bird did not like Koki either? He considered him—Koki!—ridiculous! Perhaps he even considered Koki a traitor? Sometimes Koki thinks these new presidents and their staffs think that just because Koki was the Marshal’s trusted companion. How primitive can one get? But everybody who was associated with him is suspect nowadays—even a simple little birdie. On the other hand, Koki tries to understand their paranoia: One has to be watchful! “The enemy never sleeps”—as people used to say during the Marshal’s times.

Confidentially, Koki did not like the guys who visited Twisted Mouth either. They were dubious men in black leather jackets speaking to him under their breath, looking around as if they were all part of some great conspiracy. And maybe they were? Then there were other, normal-looking guys in gray suits. Koki could tell that they were foxy old commies who had just switched from the Communist to the new, nationalist ideology. All these guys were somber and grim. Of course, Koki heard why they were of such an unpleasant disposition. These were difficult times for the new president, Twisted Mouth, and his new small state of Croatia—there was a war (or even wars) going on on the mainland, in his formerly beloved Yugoslavia. During his short visits to the Brioni residence Twisted Mouth would get very, very nervous and would talk much, showing maps to the brand-new generals in their brand-new uniforms. Very serious business it was, the war, I mean. During the four war years Koki would not see much of this president and his entourage—or of tourists, for that matter. Twisted Mouth obviously did not care for what this island has to offer, the beauty of nature, of fine food and drink, a nice swim, or a game of golf. I am afraid that with him the former glory of Brioni was gone forever. By the way, did you know that this was home to the biggest golf course in Europe at the beginning of the last century? Yes, very fine people used to come here, aristocrats, millionaires—a great tradition!

Interestingly, Twisted Mouth reminded Koki of the Marshal. Not only because he emulated his looks, but because of his death. Shortly before he ended up in a hospital from which he wouldn’t emerge again, he held a press conference. A journalist expressed his concern because the president looked ill, but he rudely replied: “What kind of question is that? Am I not even allowed to have the flu?” However, it was not the flu that killed him but his own disbelief in his mortality. He had an infection but did not take care of it in time. This denial of death is what connects the two of them. The mere idea of it was offensive to both.

Yes, thinking of glitz and glamour, Koki misses the Marshal. That vigorous, charismatic oldie was interesting and amusing to Koki. But he misses even more the fun of it all—the dinners, guests, strolls, the courting, the gossiping, the beautiful ladies, and the importance this place used to have. However, Koki doesn’t say that openly. The current, third president, the Porcupine (Koki’s nickname!), is not dangerously suspicious about Koki’s “Communist” past. What Koki finds most important about him is that he has a good sense of humor. He would perhaps even understand Koki’s reminiscences about “the good old days,” though, officially, these were “dark times.” According to the new gospel, Yugoslavia was “the prison of the nations,” as I heard Twisted Mouth explain to whoever cared to listen. But still, there are people around this quite likable old Porcupine who would promptly brand even a simple little birdie a “Yugo nostalgic”—which is just another word for traitor. Living in a democracy, one would think that a parrot should be entitled to bestow his political and other sympathies freely, to whomever he so pleases—especially concerning the past. But Koki knows better, so he keeps his feelings to himself in order not to—God forbid!—lose his job. He has witnessed that certain things, or should he say, habits, have not changed that much since the Marshal’s times. Every new man in power, just like the old one, feels endangered. After all, this state is only a baby state, not even twenty years old. Much younger than Koki himself!

But to whom is Koki telling all this? I see Koki is selling his time too cheaply. Look at you! Do you have a mirror at your hotel? No, perhaps you don’t. Koki knows your kind. You came with a tourist excursion from the mainland and you are staying in a small B&B where they don’t have even mirrors. See, Koki has a mirror in his cage and therefore he can see that he is a beautiful white parrot, with a yellow crest, in the middle of his life (he could live more than one hundred years, yes). But you, how do you look with your big stomach, dressed in an old T-shirt and shorts? You look silly. And in those sandals, you look like—well, a catastrophe. Yes. And he’ll tell you why. He will if you give him more peanuts, that is! Thanks!

Surely you know that “Brioni” is a sleek fashion brand named after this very island that you are visiting now? It somehow makes sense; Koki knows that the Marshal did not object to fashion. On the contrary, he loved it! He was elegant looking, really debonair. Although he was a Communist, he was a gentleman, too. A comrade with style, that is how Koki remembers him—and he is not alone. One of his former friends used to comment that “style and substance eventually became one.” Yes, he cared about how he looked; he sometimes changed his suit four times a day. Unlike many of his badly dressed visitors, who would come in gray shiny suits in the middle of the summer. Imagine! When they took off their jackets their shirts would show big sweat stains under their armpits. It revealed their fear. That is, their respect, because in this part of the world fear and respect are one and the same.

Like every autocrat, the Marshal ruled by fear. But could you, please, tell Koki how else one could rule people around here? Tribes need a leader, an authority that has the power to punish them. The big boss in uniform with rows of decorations, that’s what they wanted to see. Symbols are important to them. The Marshal knew the mentality of his tribes; he was a pro. His love of fashion was matched only by his love of uniforms. See, he had a great weakness for uniforms. But in his favor, Koki must say that he carried his uniforms with such natural ease and elegance that it amazed people. He also knew that they impressed the populace. On one occasion Koki heard him talking to his biographer, a certain Mister Vladimír. “I remember how much, as a child, I loved looking at the Kaiser,” he said. “At that time there were postcards with his picture, in uniform, and he would wear lots of decorations, and we boys in Kumrovec would see them in schoolbooks. Already then I understood that you have to show that you are important, otherwise people won’t believe you. You must show that you are above them; otherwise, why should they listen to an ordinary person like themselves? Looks are very important if you want to impress people.” And in order to impress them even more, he lived in the former king’s palace in Belgrade. A Communist revolutionary living in a palace; that is what I call not only stylish but smart. After all, his people were used to being ruled in monarchic tradition, no? But don’t think that the palace or even this residence in Brioni, or any other residence he used, was in his private possession! Oh, no! These official castles and residences (all thirty-two of them) were only at his disposal, that is all. Because it was well known that the Marshal did not need any private property; he lived off of the love of his people, didn’t he?

Dressed in his Marshal’s gold-ribbed uniform and ordained with many medals—he was one of the largest collectors of medals in history—he emanated authority. The only problem was his belt buckle. It, too, was made of pure gold and, therefore, so heavy that it kept slipping down! That posed a danger to his image—as it would be very unfitting for such a person to lose his pants in public, especially because authority was the main reason for wearing the uniform. But not the only reason! The Marshal was aware that he looked handsome in it: “You know Koki,” he used to say, because we often discussed fashion (as well as women!), “when you wear a uniform, you look not only powerful and elegant, but you also feel taller.” He was a bit on the short side and sometimes it bothered him a little. He was an accomplished man, but at times he would say such things because he could not do much about his height. “The Marshal walks differently, has a different bearing. Everybody can see that he is an important man,” Koki would say. The old man would be pleased with this comment and would give Koki a bite of a tangerine. He himself had grown the fruit and, good person that he was, would donate the whole harvest to orphaned children.

If you ask Koki, the Marshal looked equally elegant in plain clothes, exuding charisma even when wearing shorts. Unlike yours, his shorts were cut to fit—not too tight, not too loose—and made of the finest cotton. Somehow, even his bare legs (in off-white soft leather moccasins, not sandals) did not look as horrible as your bare legs. Or is it that his legs looked good because they belonged to—him? Mmmm, this is something to think about, Koki-birdie!

Koki remembers his stylish white summer suits, tailor-made, of the finest cotton or linen. And his real Panama hat, not like the cheap fake ones I see around nowadays. By the way, speaking of fashion, Koki has noticed that democratization in this particular field means bad quality, don’t you think? If democracy in fashion means bad quality and cheap stuff, Koki is not for it. Speaking of democracy, the Marshal was not a democrat, either in fashion or in politics. In both cases, it is better to compare him with real aristocrats in Europe at the time. This all makes one wonder where he got it from—his expensive tastes and political talent. Surely not from his family. He was, as you have already heard, of very humble origin. Koki is not in the mood for deep thoughts, but perhaps his style and talents were innate? Just as some are born with beauty or intelligence, so he was born with good taste and great political talent.

The Marshal was passionate about his looks, women, food, whiskey, and real Havana cigars, straight from Castro. That was the side of him Koki knew best. There were many other sides, too, but Koki-birdie tells what he knows. Maybe he adds a little here and there, but only a little! He doesn’t want to appear like a chatterbox or gossip, oh, no!

His sandals? Well, Koki swears to you that the Marshal never wore sandals; he hated them. Maybe because sandals reminded him of his barefoot childhood? Everybody who comes here should know that. You should know it, too. Looking as you do, you would not have made it one thousand meters from here in his time. Soldiers would have shot at you, yes. Not because of the sandals, but because these few islands were offlimits to tourists and proletarians in general. Tell Koki, please, are you wearing sandals so that everyone can see your dirty nails, ha-ha?! No way could you have visited him dressed like that, even if you were president of the universe itself. No sandals, that was an important dress code here.

But it did not apply to the ladies. On the contrary, the Marshal enjoyed a view of their pretty little toes, especially if they were painted red, like those of Elizabeth Taylor. Oh, what a beauty she was! She, with her famous “violet-blue eyes”—Koki heard that expression from the Marshal himself, you know. “I could drown in your violet-blue eyes, my pretty lady!” he told Elizabeth, gallantly kissing her hand the old-fashioned way. She merely laughed in her thin voice. Such a great film star, but her voice was so girlish. “Please, Mister President, call me Liz,” she said to him. And then he replied, in his most charming voice: “Only if you call me Joža!” And then Elizabeth tried to pronounce his name in her American way, Y-o-o-u-z-a. Ah, it sounded so sweet. Unlike when Koki would call him… All the while they were sitting in his 1953 Cadillac Eldorado. Great car, great! I drove with him a few times around here—it was sensational. He loved that car and polished it himself, whistling a tune, like any ordinary man would, only not many had such a car back then. He then offered to show her the island, and while they drove away into the sunset, I thought, Well, this is just like a Hollywood movie. Maybe this was his thought, too, because he loved the movies, spent a lot of time watching such films, especially westerns.

Thanks for the peanuts; pumpkin seeds are also okay. Listen, today you could hire that very car for five hundred dollars an hour. Isn’t that great? Ah, yes, Koki forgets that you don’t have that kind of money… too bad. This was a unique chance for you to slip into his role!

Yes, it all happened right here, in front of this cage, because he was showing Liz this Koki person. The Marshal was showing off his talking parrot that could swear. But imagine what happened? Koki was so taken by Liz, so confused, that he could not say a word! Much less a bad word in front of such a lady. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Koki was speechless. It took him a while to pull himself together and sing “Jingle Bells,” because he could not remember any other song in English at the moment. It was in the middle of the summer when she visited us, and Koki couldn’t do better than to sing that stupid Christmas song. How embarrassing! But she was delighted; she kept saying, “Bravo, bravo!”

Liz was so veeery beautiful. Her beauty left many men, let alone this parrot, speechless. It all happened when that husband of hers (was he the fifth? Liz had a tendency to marry many times, just like the Marshal) came here to act in a movie about the German military’s attempt to capture the Marshal during World War II. The husband actor, Richard Burton was his name, was playing the role of the Marshal himself, the commander of his partisan army. Koki heard from the Marshal’s chambermaid that the Marshal was rather pleased with the film. Later Koki saw the film for himself. Dressed in a well-fitting uniform, Burton really resembled him. Burton was good-looking in a rough kind of way. Pity that he was such a drunkard.

As Koki already told you, he was privileged; he talked freely to the Marshal—as opposed to many of the parrots around him. For example, he would tell him: “Hey, you! Get serious!” Or, “Attention, attention!” That was when his wife was approaching while he was flirting with this or that lady. This often happened when the well-known Italian actress Sophia Loren visited us here. The Marshal loved such fancy company, and she came to Brioni more than once. Whatever the reason for her visit, they enjoyed cooking together. Yes, food, that was another of his favorite pleasures, and if he could combine a beautiful woman with good food—nobody could be happier. The secret with Sophia, besides her long legs, small waist, and big boobs, was that she could cook. They would enjoy preparing food together and his fat wife would kind of supervise them, although she herself did not have the habit of spending time in the kitchen. Later he would eat the pasta that they had cooked together, even if pasta was not his favorite food. Neither was fish. Or vegetables, for that matter. Sophia cooked with olive oil. We have excellent olive oil here, produced on the mainland, but it was one of the very few things he could not stand. He was a true son of Zagorje, which is where, on festive days, people eat pig, turkey, chicken, and the like. Oh, he loved to eat roast suckling pig, the ears especially! But chicken, too—grown only for him, it goes without saying. Yet, while cooking with Sofia, he even used to dip his bread into the olive oil and eat it, just to please her. You should have seen his Madame reproaching him for that, telling him, “But you don’t like olive oil.” “What do you know?!” he would grumble, dismissing her while knowing full well that it was dangerous to do so. Madame could turn his life into hell.

She knew how to make him miserable, and she did it quite often in his old age. Koki knows that for a fact. Madame was his fifth wife, although I heard that this is disputed. There are stories that he had some seven wives and nineteen children. Koki finds such gossip unconvincing. And by the way, Where are his children now? Did they disappear? His Madame was jealous, that was the problem. Who knows, she might have good reason—and not only regarding film stars. For example, there were two sisters, both his masseuses. They took turns massaging the old man, because he needed a massage twice a day in his old age. These young women did not look bad at all, if you know what Koki-birdie means. Curvy they were, yes! He certainly enjoyed the company of the young ladies. But it was much more important that they had daily access to the Marshal. They had a chance to catch his attention—his ear, as it were. Do you understand? Can you imagine how valuable this was on the favor-exchange market? How many people asked them to speak to him? They could talk to him, tell him this and that, express their opinion about a person or even about politics, why not? They had his attention, which is the only thing that counts. Many courtiers were jealous of this, most of all Madame herself. Koki remembers one particular scene with one of the Marshal’s masseuses. Madame raised her voice at these sisters more than once. Koki even heard her screaming once, “Get out, get out you dirty bitch!” She did not choose her words carefully on that particular occasion.

From Lanka, the elephant in our zoo, I heard that once upon a time Madame had been a well-built young beauty who did not know how to swim and had not seen the sea until she came to the Brioni archipelago. At the beginning of their relationship she was an unassuming peasant girl of exotic beauty—her thick, shiny black hair was particularly beautiful—who adored the Marshal. At that young age (she was twenty-three years old when they met, while he was fifty-five) she was totally dedicated to him. However, Lanka told Koki that with time she developed into a not very pleasant or charming or even interesting character, and Lanka should know—she lived in Brioni longer than Koki. Yet people say that often the Marshal was not nice to his wife either. He could be cynical or humiliate her publicly, telling her to “just shut up and smile.” She did have a dazzling smile, though.

Koki thinks that it must have been difficult to be his wife. For one, she wanted children, but he did not. She also must have become aware of the fact that, without him, she was just a nobody. With time she probably grew bitter and disappointed in the deity she had devoted her life to. On the other hand, she must have been taken in by that glamour and power of his. With the passing years, as Madame became fatter, her ambitions grew accordingly. Koki developed a theory that her body mass was somehow related to her desire to rule in his place. But perhaps Koki is wrong! Anyhow, it was not enough that she ruled him through his trust in her. She also ruled his office, and without her approval no one could get a job there. She laid off people as she pleased; Koki remembers how she chased away our cook. The woman left in tears, and the Marshal was very unhappy about the incident. But Madame managed to replace his security advisers, attachés, and even a longtime secretary, a very reliable man who did not give her any reason to do that. Except that he was too close to the Marshal. If he was aware that she wanted to control the controller the Marshal did nothing to prevent it.

Then, in the seventies, there was a rumor that she had political ambitions. Madame insisted on having a seat in the Central Committee. The only grounds for such a decision was the fact that she was the Marshal’s wife. But apparently, as Yugoslavia was not Romania, where Elena Ceausescu even formally shared power with her husband (as a member of the highest party and state institutions), Madame was flatly refused. After that the gossip was that Madame, with a few officers, had even contemplated a coup d’état! If this were true, it would have made Koki wonder if this kind of hunger for power was maybe contagious. But was it true? Koki can only tell you that after 1975 Madame was no longer seen here or in the Marshal’s vicinity. Not that Koki was sorry! You see, when Koki met her for the first time, he was just a little birdie, and everybody was nice to him, held him, patted him on his little yellow crest, and played with him. But not her, no sir! She was indifferent to him. Probably in her village in Lika they shot at birds. For Madame, Koki was just that, a bird to shoot at. Oh poor, poor Koki, he could have lost his little head… When he inquired among the personnel—Koki always had his trustworthy sources—he heard that she had been removed. Koki swears to you that this was the word they used, removed from the palace.

But the conspiracy theory is not likely. Knowing the person, Koki is convinced that in her case the matter was more banal. She was simply jealous of people who managed to get too close to her husband, be they men or women. Sometimes her behavior became farcical: She would brandish her pistol, threatening to kill the masseuse sisters! Even to kill him! “There will be blood!” she allegedly shouted. Now, to threaten to kill a masseuse or two perhaps wouldn’t be much of a scandal. But to threaten the Marshal, even if he was her husband—and such fights can happen in a family—that was an entirely different thing. Her threats were taken seriously by his security people, by his doctors, by almost everyone around him. Or perhaps the threats were only used as an excuse to move her away from him—in such cases, one should always consider this possibility.

Ah, you are laughing at this story! Yeah, it sounds kind of funny, the Marshal was already over eighty when the “masseuse incident” happened. However, nothing is funny when it comes to a man in his position. As the result of putting his life in jeopardy—this is how it was formulated—Madame was removed indeed. Not because she threatened him (or perhaps even plotted to overthrow him); that is legitimate, people do it in every court in the world. But because her behavior was the symptom of a betrayal. Trust is a very precious commodity for a man in power, perhaps the most precious of all. That is why such a man doesn’t have friends; he knows that people are motivated by personal interest to befriend him. As a rule, he could never be sure if his best friend wasn’t perhaps plotting to take his place. If loyalty is the most appreciated and rewarded quality, then disloyalty is the most severely punished. Even today, after all this time, Koki is convinced that the real problem between them was that the Marshal had trusted Madame and she had let him down. He must have been very sad when he realized that his own wife had betrayed him. That was the main reason she had to go. But he did not send her to a real prison, oh no! Just to a house prison, where she still lives. You did not know that she is still alive? Of course, being so much younger than the Marshal, she has survived him by almost twenty years now. But she never speaks, and when she does, she only complains about how she was treated after his death! You can’t hear a word from her about her life with him—or anything else of interest, for that matter. Koki is convinced that she is not allowed to speak; she simply knows too much.

Afterward, people here said that Madame was very lucky. Because, you know, he was not exactly a softie. He could be cruel. He did not hesitate to send a friend to prison for much less. Some of his comrades-in-arms even disappeared without a trace. Not far away from the famous Brioni archipelago, where we are now, was the infamous Bare Island, to name but one such hideous place. It was no more than a piece of stone tossed into the middle of the Adriatic Sea—no trees, no grass, nothing. In 1948, by decree of the Marshal, the most terrible prison one could imagine was established there. Political prisoners were forced to work in a stone quarry and carry heavy stones from one side of the island to the other—and then back again. I know somebody who had a brother, an army officer, who ended up there. By chance, that morning in 1948, he did not listen to the news because he had drunk too much the night before. The price he paid for being uninformed was high: He came to the meeting in his garrison not knowing that during the night the Marshal had split with Stalin. As yesterday’s policy had been to align with the Soviets, he expressed his disbelief at the news. Sure enough, he was sentenced as a “Stalinist” and served several years on that wretched island. He was only one of some fifteen thousand who passed through the Bare Island “labor camp,” as it was called.

“Our revolution does not eat its children!” the Marshal used to claim at the time. But that simply was not true. The Marshal never appreciated, to put it mildly, opinions different from his. His fear of a so-called counterrevolution was great, although nobody ever defined exactly what that meant. Generally speaking counterrevolution covered just about everything he thought was directed against him, since he personified the Communist Party and the government. Freedom of information was certainly not his kind of thing! Yet in the last ten years of the regime, the party’s control mellowed: As long as editors in the media stuck to the general party ideology, they were quite free to publish the news, information, and even critical comments.

The Marshal was a ladies’ man, yes he was. He flirted with every woman in sight. Even with such a distinguished person as Britain’s Queen Elizabeth. Okay, he didn’t exactly flirt, but he did do his best to charm her and many other glamorous and famous ladies. He spoke fluent Russian and German and basic English—not bad for a locksmith. Koki already told you that he was a Communist with style, which made him an exotic bird himself! But in Koki’s long life he saw that what attracts people the most is power. Regardless of his looks, charm, or other abilities—of which he apparently had enough—his power itself was magnetic. It pulled people in; it drew them near.

From those exciting times and important visitors to the summer residence at Brioni, Koki remembers the food most of all. It was usually prepared by his cook, a pleasant local woman who understood his fascination, not so much with the food itself, but with its purpose, a feast. A feast meant entertainment, music, meeting interesting people, animated conversations, new faces, new ideas. Such a feast, to be sure, was at the same time a demonstration of his benevolence and his might. An autocrat but a hedonist, a benevolent one compared to Stalin, some say. Koki heard that Stalin’s lifestyle was that of an ascetic monk.

You should know that there is a collection of twenty-one thousand menus left from the Marshal! Isn’t that an impressive part of his heritage? I could recite to you many of the menus by heart! And the recipes—just ask Koki (and offer him a few nice morsels!). For example, a dinner for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth consisted of lobster Bellevue, followed by a variation of grilled meat á la Serbe (čevavapčići, ražnjići, pljeskavice). On the other hand, Romanian president Nicolai Ceausescu was on a diet, taking only cereal and fruit juice. He was served a simple peasant soup from Zagorje with cheese dumplings. Being of peasant stock, he appreciated it a lot. Indira Gandhi loved apple cake, and Princess Margaret was served quails in their nest.

Ah, Koki could go on listing like this forever…

Surprisingly, judging by his favorite foods, the Marshal did not have a very sophisticated palate. He could have had caviar every day. He could have had champagne and strawberries for breakfast every day. What—isn’t that the finest breakfast one can have, at least judging by the movies? He could have had anything he wished for. A wag of his little finger would have been enough to bring him quail’s eggs, for example, although the thought of eating the poor bird’s eggs makes Koki sad. Look, even here, at the seaside—and even in the summertime—his breakfast would typically consist of an omelet with sausages. This was called a light breakfast! No wonder his attaché was sometimes desperate, because the doctor’s orders were that he should follow a certain diet. But who could have forced the Marshal to diet, even if it was for his own good? Because, of course, only he knew what was best for him, right?

You are what you eat—Koki thinks it must be a Chinese proverb that he heard long ago, because it is so wise. It was certainly true in the Marshal’s case. His eating habits were, indeed, very telling for those who knew where to look for signs about his character. As Koki said, pork was his favorite and, as far as he was concerned, his doctors and their ideas about health could rot in hell. His pleasures always came first, and the Marshal certainly knew how to please himself. Koki went so far as to sometimes think that he had become a ruler (a dictator, an autocrat, a head of the state—anyway, a person in power) just to be able to fulfill all his heart’s desires. Or was it, again, the same thing as with his legs: Perhaps he acquired such desires only after climbing to power? Never mind, let’s not get carried away by such speculation.

It is hard to believe that seemingly unimportant food habits and preferences—the content of his plate—can reveal a person’s character. But according to Koki-birdie, his ability to seriously delude himself could have already been detected in his ignoring the doctor’s orders and not taking proper care of his health. Knowing that he ate totally inappropriate and harmful food, Koki said to himself, “Our beloved Marshal, the greatest son of our nations and nationalities” (as he was sometimes called) “is seriously infected by the personality cult virus.” Ah, I see that you think Koki exaggerates, that he could not be that clever a birdie! But it was easy to come to such a conclusion. The Marshal was an extremely vain man. So much so that he believed nothing bad could ever happen to him. Whatever he did, whatever he ate, no serious illness could befall him. He felt so sure of himself, so untouchable—even by death. And that is the symptom of a grave illness that is closely connected to power. In fact, Koki thinks that it comes from having absolute power. But the paradox of such power is that it clouds not only your judgment but also your image of yourself. You begin to think that “living forever” is not only a metaphor; you begin to live that metaphor!

The most important characteristic of the personality cult is that a person believes in his own immortality. After he died, one of his doctors was here, and Koki heard him say that the Marshal did not believe he was dying. “What, amputate my leg? I’d rather kill myself!” he said angrily when the doctors told him he would need an operation to save his life. What kind of life would that be? Koki knows that the Marshal loved traveling, and he could see how humiliating it would be for him to travel like an invalid! A crippled old man! And how could he lead his people, who were accustomed to a strong, decisive, imposing person? It would look disgraceful. So it took quite some persuasion to get him to agree to surgery. He wanted to be the only one in charge of his destiny, like God. And even when he survived that first surgery, the Marshal was not aware of death looming—he spoke about his future plans, Koki heard. For him, death was an abstraction; it concerned others—not him. Yes, he said that “one is immortal because of one’s deeds,” but this did not apply to him. Mind you, on his deathbed his barber dyed his hair every second week! That is what Koki calls wishful thinking. A sad picture comes to Koki’s mind from those times, a photo with his two sons from the hospital in Ljubljana. The Marshal’s last photo. Koki could see on their faces that they were worried and sad, that they knew what he did not want to comprehend, that this was the end.

Koki also thinks that at the beginning others were to blame for adoring the leader. But later on, he himself became responsible for accepting that adoration, for believing in it. One of the dangers of the Marshal’s attitude toward the future was reflected in his perception of himself as being irreplaceable. That perhaps determined the destiny of his beloved country, Yugoslavia: He was hardly capable of imagining its future without him. Therefore, he did not prepare his successor. To create a successor would have meant that he recognized the fact that he was on his way out. But wouldn’t that mean defeat? Perhaps even an offense? He could not stand competition; therefore, he eliminated anyone who had the capacity of eventually replacing him. Another characteristic of his personality cult was that he could not be criticized—a luxury others didn’t have.

Then, in the late seventies, a so-called collective presidency of eight men, who would rotate in ruling the country, was created. But this eight-headed monster survived only a short time before the country collapsed into its bloody wars.

Well, well, of course Koki knows that in telling you all this he is being indiscreet. But, after all, the Marshal is dead, and this way he gets some extra food. He is a pragmatic tourist worker, and this is the only reason he is talking to you (by the way, give him a piece of your apple; he loves apples!). Koki, the Marshal’s parrot who speaks five languages, and is a conversationalist and entertainer of movie stars and statesmen, of queens and dictators, reduced to the role of a clown for a fistful of peanuts now. Sad, very sad… no wonder Koki gets depressed sometimes. But then, there is You Tube, his favorite Web site. Koki asks an old zookeeper to bring him to a computer at the reception desk of the hotel. The keeper knows that when Koki gets sentimental, he asks a young receptionist to show him films of the Marshal’s speeches and interviews. Or—if Koki is really in a gloomy mood—even of his funeral. Strange, you might think, that a depressed birdie would watch the funeral, yes? But let Koki tell you, it actually lifts our spirits, the zookeeper’s and Koki’s. This is because they can remind themselves how much the Marshal was loved and respected. Regardless of current claims to the contrary, every single man and woman cried when the Marshal died. Imagine that moment, when more than twenty million people cried! It was splendid, just splendid to see. Koki remembers how on May 4, 1980, life stopped in the whole country, which was much bigger then. And how people behaved as if they had lost their father, which in a way was true.

Yes, Koki knows that you are about to ask him why they cried for the old dictator, with his royal splendor and his personality cult? For good reason, though: He gave them a good life. Most of the people in Yugoslavia were peasants who had moved to cities after World War II but remembered their hard lives in the villages. The Marshal spoiled them. Like him, they enjoyed life far beyond their means. That is why the political opposition never blossomed in this country. People were satisfied with their lives, with their standard of living. They were happy to travel abroad. To wear blue jeans and Italian shoes. To read foreign books and newspapers, watch movies and TV programs from the West. With these crumbs of freedom Yugoslavia differed from the Soviet bloc countries. How little a difference it was—and how big at the same time!

Yet, this moment of his death and the paralysis of the whole of Yugoslavia was perhaps the finest moment, the height of his personality cult. Just as if the Marshal belonged to some great royal family, say the Romanoffs or the Habsburgs. If only the Marshal could see it, Koki is sure he would be really pleased with himself. Over 200 foreign delegations attended his funeral, as well as 127 heads of state. Whether you believe it or not, that was more than at Churchill’s or Kennedy’s funerals. Maybe because he was the symbol of a “third way” at a time of polarization for many poor nations, regardless of the fact that this way led nowhere in the end. Anyway, the whole world was in Belgrade that day, as we used to say here at his residence at Brioni. Yes, his funeral was quite a spectacle, and it made Koki proud. Even more so because Koki knew some of the attending dignitaries personally. In a way, if one could forget the sadness of the occasion, it was a magnificent event. Surely never to be repeated for any of the buggers whom Koki would later see on this island in his long life.

No doubt, the citizens of the many small states that emerged from the breakup of Yugoslavia will judge the Marshal’s role in history and the controversies surrounding his rule. These days, Koki hears that they are asking themselves whether he was a great Communist leader or a crook—as if the two were mutually exclusive! In the end, let me tell you that Koki doesn’t want to get involved in such matters. Koki the parrot, his court jester, knows only that he did not need to beg for food back then. He performed for food, yes, but he did not beg.

No, thanks, I’ve had enough of your peanuts for today. Now, fuck off and go wash your feet!