The Big Water

How they were born, how the songs died

Kejtin is under lock. Curse me, under lock. The only thought I had was that Kejtin was in the cellar. I was afraid that if I didn’t do something at once that he would die, that my friend couldn’t survive that. Only one wish existed, to help him to get his freedom back. Curse me, his freedom. I swear, there was no other cure for the heart of Kejtin.

The last evening bell announced the time to go to sleep. Just as the few lights in the Home were turned off, all of the voices went silent. No dream would come at all, I was in a fever, in a confusion, I went to sleep for a little, then, as though startled, I would wake, some unfamiliar voice would wake me, would call me to wake! I listened, it was the voice of the Big Water. Curse me, after so many centuries the voice of the Big Water came back. She endlessly roared, hummed, threw up powerful waves, the whole bank echoed. Powerful waves started to splash me, to take my poor little bed, above my head, crazed birds flew. Curse me, the dream was the most frightening illness there was, the biggest.

In the morning, at the darkest dawn, I knocked on the door of Trifun Trifunoski’s room. He couldn’t sleep either, he was possessed by the noble spirit and shaking with fever, as they say in the old folk tales, a fever lasting three years. Pale, haggard, powerfully excited, pressing a little leaf between his palms, he was muttering out loud, sounding word by word. He was reciting, creating.

The noble Trifun Trifunoski (no, it is not possible for a man to hold himself back), that was the truth, on the little table there was a little, open army suitcase, full to the brim with poems, novels, plays, with all sorts of creative work. Oh God, dear God! Surely there was something in that burning soul when so unthinkingly he resigned from that happy, secure future which was already smiling on him. Curse me, he forgot the victories, the awards, as if the flattering commendations did not keep him, all at once he became a slave to something scary. Curse me, a slave. It was tragic to see this powerful, handsome man in such a degrading situation, at once I regretted that I had come so early. That man, who so easily ran millions of kilometres, over mountains, rivers, plains, who like a deer leapt over huge ponds of water, who in a wondrous manner could fly over muddy, heavy roads, through thorns, through rains, through slush, who got lost in thunder storms, it was sad, it was desperate to look at how he was rolling around in the little stinking room. His whole body was useless to him, something more powerful had nailed him, ruined. Curse me, how quickly, how unexpectedly everything changed in him, how quickly he deteriorated, lost weight, wasted away, he was totally wasted, he looked like a big, wounded bird with withered wings, its steel-grey feathers dragging through the mud. What made him go so crazy?

You just had to see him before a holiday day, for example, the first of May, May Day. Curse me, then it was as if he wasn’t on the earth, it was scary to meet his look.

“Look at Trifun Trifunoski,” one of the children would say.

“Don’t be stupid,” another would say. “Get out of his way, he’s thinking!”

“Off by heart,” would say the first child, “he looks disturbed to me.”

“He is not,” a third would join in, in defence of Trifun Trifunoski, “you’ll hear at the celebration.”

“But where is his book,” the boy would ask, “can he do it just like that, off by heart, as though he is reading something in the wind.”

Curse me, in the wind. It was a wind he knew, some strange, foreign wind. He didn’t sleep for days and nights. Sometimes, for centuries, I swear. All of a sudden you’d see him like some eternal guard circumnavigating the Home for hours, there was no place that could contain him. It could have been an ugly, harsh Spring, with snow, with storms, what do you think, could that dim his bright look, to darken the sun on May Day? Curse me, it was as if everything was against Trifun Trifunoski, the weather would go bad just around the holiday. Cold rains would fall, stacks of snow, the unexpected ice would lay all nature to waste. All the same, while the others were taken with rage, kindly Trifun Trifunoski, sunken in his secret world worked sweetly, with happiness. Curse me, it was as if he wasn’t there, as though he lived in another world. Everything was different with him, the sky was clear, blue, high, endless; happy little birds were flying, red flags were waving, a hammer and sickle blossomed on every wall, red stars, symbols of every country, at that time, he was with them, marching. Curse me, marching. So what if the north wind was whistling, Trifun Trifunoski could hear the Internationale, he was inspired with such a spirit, he was creating. Curse me, no-one could provoke such a fever in the children as Trifun Trifunoski did when he took the stage, when he started to recite one of his poems. Everything in him cheered, he sang. We listened open-mouthed, in a trance, we greedily gulped each of his words.

That’s why I hurried to Trifun Trifunoski so early, that I wanted as early as possible to reveal my own great secret. My own heart. Curse me, my whole heart. The thing that was born in me that night was the shiniest thing, most beautiful. Not a single star, not a single sun was as bright. With a beaming face I stood before Trifun Trifunoski, victorious. As soon as he saw me, with a single look he hit the nail on the head. He said:

“What do I see, little Leme, you’ve burst into song! I bet the nightingale has come out in you!”

(Curse me, the nightingale.) As calmly as I could, sweetly I answered him:

“It wasn’t a nightingale,” I said and I was taken, carried away. Losing my mind.

“Well, what?” he said inquisitively looking at me. “Sit down,” he said to me sweetly, offering me his own chair. He did not take his eyes off me the whole time, observing me. “What could it be then, Leme?” he asked carefully, a little indirectly, teacher-like.

“It was water,” I answered him directly, “wild birds. I can’t contain myself, Trifun Trifunoski!”

“Strange,” he said, “come on, read, let’s hear your wondrous composition, Leme.”

“Thank you, Trifun Trifunoski,” I wanted to say, “but I haven’t the time,” I wasn’t allowed to lose a single second, every moment was decisive for the life of Kejtin. At once, without stops, without breaks, without any punctuation, I began to read, blazing as though with a machine gun. Curse me, I sang, I cried, I crawled, I flew, I fell dying, I came to life, I laughed, I swallowed water, I sank, I was lost. I was in the sky, with the stars, in the shining gardens of paradise, I fell into deepest, darkest hell. For example, when it was necessary to say, oh, oh, my dear mother, oh, dear friend, oh, life, oh, birds, oh water, oh Home, oh, oh, oh — that amounted to someone, oh, someone stabbing you in the back with a knife. Oh, a knife. Naturally, if someone sticks a knife in your heart, you won’t be singing; rather, you will fall down, you will scream. Curse me, I screamed at the top of my voice.

“Calm down, Leme, calm yourself, you poor boy,” said Trifun Trifunoski, frightened, concerned, but he could not tell my heart to calm down, no-one could stop such a devastating, evil wind.

“Oh, I’m going blind,” was one part of the composition and fool that I was, I rolled my eyes so naturally, showing only the white of my eyes, so that they were all you could see, and poor Trifun Trifunoski thought my sight was gone. Mournfully, he said:

“You unfortunate little boy, now you will be blind and lame for the rest of your life!” And then he piled the most offensive abuses on the evil muse. “Curse you, you dark goddess, shame on you for taking this thin, weak, little bird as a target, for sending your death-bringing, poisonous, titanic arrows into this thin, little chest. Here I am, Cupid, here I am, black muse, all of me is available to you, hit me, wrestle with me,” Trifun Trifunoski offered himself up.

But with these words, it was as though he helped me, curse me, it was then that the river flowed in me. Part of what I was saying was written down and part of what I was saying had never before come into my mind.

“Oh, be quiet, be quiet, savage wave, say in this case who is right and who is wrong,” and you know, in that moment, the wave calmed, a long pause followed, the waters near the edge softly whispered, under the pretence they were weaving the fabric of truth, white, and poison, untruth, turned into small, black blisters which were pointlessly dying on the bank. “Die, die,” I was merciless. “This fire, this heart which is becoming enflamed, curse me, one clear day — grey day, it will be clear who is right, who is wrong!”

Once I finished reciting, it was as if a huge stone fell from the soul of Trifun Trifunoski.

“How do you feel now, Leme,” he asked me sighing. “Have you calmed down a little, dear heart?”

“Yes,” I said, “now I feel better, Trifun Trifunoski.”

“Let’s thank God for that,” he said. “Good. How are your eyes?”

I admit that I considered this question a little, I did not understand it but I hope that I gave a sufficiently correct answer. Looking at him goggle eyed I answered him:

“They will be able to see the sun again, Trifun Trifunoski!”

“I am glad, Leme,” he said sincerely happy, you could see he was happy, “my heart is very happy that your sight has returned to you, young man, and now we must analyse things a little, Leme.”

We look at each other straight in the eye, fierily. Curse me, fierily.

“What can be said, Leme,” he started, carefully, “you can see for yourself, unhappy Leme, it is scary, horrible! It cannot be thought of, it is pure fantasy. Leme. Fruitless, poisonous, death-bringing, my little bird. It is aimless, Leme, it has no aim. (Curse me, aim.) Let’s analyse, word for word... It’s strange Leme, very strange, dear young man, all night to wastefully, aimlessly look at the water, just like that, little fool, good-for-nothing; what sort of satisfaction did you get from that, little friend? Shivers are crawling over me, Leme, when I think of all that might have happened to you for such a hollow, wild thing. What benefit could a person expect to get, Leme, except oh, to certainly earn a fine, little cold, one to get into your bones. I bet that you froze your little brother too, Leme, the one you took to that boulder, his teeth were chattering, weren’t they, Leme?

“Yes, Trifun Trifunoski, it is true, it was cold,” I acknowledged.

“There,” he said so sweetly, helpfully, like a parent would, “you endured so much fear in those black waves and wild birds and it was all for nothing! And secondly, Leme, the most frightening thing, is that in your composition one can see a great insensitivity, young man. At least in one moment you should think of the millions of hungry people, the millions suffering, the millions drowning in blood, of your unfortunate brothers, you haven’t any conscience, dear young man, to be able to sit on that boulder to pursue your crazy happiness. Where is your oath, Leme, your youth morale, your human spirit? You have acted selfishly Leme, just like a bourgeois without taking into account the class struggle of the proletariat... Tragic, Leme,” kindly Trifun Trifunoski abruptly destroyed me from all sides.

“I am ashamed,” I said and I started to cry. I acknowledged that I had no talent, that I hate all poems, novels and all such things, I acknowledged to him that it was a moment of craziness, darkness, pain, and that it was selfish, a small pain, the pain of just one person, meaningless, one person. Curse me, just like that, of only one person.

His confusion was without bounds when he heard these words from my mouth. Curse me, he did not believe.

“I value your sincerity, Leme,” he said dryly, with concern, “but your soul is ill, black, it has to be cured, dear. What is the evil spirit in you, Leme, that’s made you so crazy, who is that evil devil?” he asked with pain.

“Kejtin,” I called to him weeping out loud. “He is dying in the cellar... He has been refusing food for three days, he wants to die, he will die. He is dying innocent, I swear, he is dying because of some disgusting person, some villain. Today is the last day, Trifun Trifunoski, tomorrow is the doctor’s examination and they will take him away, dear mother!” You know, this was the limit of my strength. Out of my mind, with my hands, with my head, with my feet I started to hit the wall of the little room, and at the same time to call out the harshest ugliest words. “Disgusting! Villain!”

Obviously the good Trifun Trifunoski had strongly struck my pain. Calming me in his arms, with his dear hands stroking my hair, I remember that he said one other thing, with fervour he said:

“Poor boy! Why didn’t you say it at once, Leme? Aaggh,” he said with pain, as though someone had stuck a knife deep into him, through to his bone, ah, that disgusting person, that villain! No, no, that cannot be permitted, no way! A brief smile flashed on his lips, lit up his face, something excited him, with some strange happiness, he comforted me, “Be comforted, Leme, your friend will return to you safe and sound,” then from his suitcase that was full of works he took a note pad full of hand written poems, drawings of flowers, stars and flags and he gave it to me. “For you, Leme,” he said, “these poems are for you, dear young man.” Curse me, I thought that he was giving them to me to calm me down. I was so ignorant and stupid!

That was the last time Trifun Trifunoski and I saw each other. The only thing that remained was the hope, that little note pad with strange poems and even stranger, inscrutable drawings...

Perhaps some of those little devils had really thought up that mountain, Senterlev. Perhaps it didn’t exist at all, someone had dreamt it up from fear, from scary despair. Curse me, I curse myself, I became a non-believer, a liar, in me were born some evil, bad feelings, unnoticeably I began to hate everything in the Home, even the children. I would show those little disgusting villains. Ah, you must think that that was so simplistic, simple, easy. Ah, you certainly don’t know! An escape from that place must be made, far, far away. You might stay on the road, you might fall on the road, and the sun might burn you as long as you do not return. Never go back again to that Home, in that deaf building. Never, never! Never to see the eyes of those people again, to leave all people! To be alone, all alone, dear boy, little man, to hide yourself in some dark, deep cave, away from everyone, from every person. You are not permitted to mix with them, their words are lies, their love is false, that’s how they smile at you, dear boy, until you fall into their hands, until they seize you, then like a little beast, they will throw you in the cafe, in the line, in the assembly line, in the cursed Home. I was full of hate, bitterness, oh, God, something frightening, mindless, was tying itself to my heart. But that’s when She came, I swear, I can swear any oath you ask of me, she said to me “What is it Leme, don’t you believe any more, woe is you, son. Believe, Leme, believe, little Leme,” she made me swear an oath on my mother to do so. Curse me, so what, perhaps that mountain did exist, the Senterlev? And it was as if everything started from new, love, hate, truth, lies, curses, prayer, goodness, swear words...