Naslovnica: Božidarka Brnas
Mirjam Dular, Vzporedni svetovi/Parallel Worlds
Mirjam Dular v dvojezični zbirki kratkih zgodb Vzporedni svetovi/Parallel Worlds z izostrenim pesniškim posluhom in natančnostjo filmske kamere razpira prizore, v katerih se iz drobnih premikov – pogleda, besede, geste – rojeva drama moči. Ženske in moški se opazujejo, izmenjujejo, preizkušajo in preobračajo: iz objektiviziranih teles vznikne ranljivost, iz ranljivosti moč; iz naključnih srečanj skoraj obredni trenutki, pri čemer umetnost (slika, kip, glasba) postane drugo ime za željo. Avtorica tekoče menjuje registre – od lucidnega humorja do srhljive bližine zločina, od sanjske logike do hladne stvarnosti, zaradi katere lahko eksplodira nasilje. Njena proza je jasna, ritmična, brez odvečnih kretenj; vsaka replika zadene kot dobro odmerjen takt. Posebnost te pisave je v kombinaciji poetične ostrine in dramaturške ekonomije: stavek je čist, slika precizna, preobrat neizprosen. Dular zaupa bralcu, pusti mu prostor za interpretacijo, a nikoli ne zamegli etične napetosti. Med vrsticami razgali tudi nas same: slovensko zadržanost, zadrego pred skupnim glasom, trmo “naj bo po pravilih”, melanholijo, ki jo včasih raje zamenjamo za urejen videz. In vendar se v teh zgodbah prav ta rezerva razpira – v pesmi, v pogledu, v hipu priznanja, ko razumemo, da pod stereotipom tihe spodobnosti tlijo vročica želja, strahovi in nežnosti. To je knjiga, ki nas ujame “skoraj same v prostoru” – in nas ne pusti več istih.
Zbirka je del knjižne serije Sodobne zgodbe iz Slovenije, s katero želimo sodobno slovensko prozo približati bralstvu zunaj slovenskega prostora.
*
»O čem premišljuješ?« me vpraša žena.
»O ničemer,« odvrnem. Umaknem pogled; moral bi reči nekaj določnega, nekaj takega, da ne bo vrtala naprej. Moški vendar ne sme sanjariti, to bi moral vedeti.
Sedim v naslanjaču, ki sem ga potegnil k vratom na teraso, tako blizu, da lahko puhnem sapo na šipo in opazujem, kako prh kondenzirane vlage v hipu izhlapi.
Gledam obloge novozapadlega snega, ulovljenega med redke preostale liste na tankih upogibajočih se grmovnih šibah; okrog ničle je, zato se skoraj tali. Z vej japonske češnje se neprestano usipajo nežni kosmi; okno je tesno zaprto, pa vseeno vsakokrat kot v prisluhu slišim kratke preplašene šume snega, ko se razsuje na tla, in vej, ki ob tem zanihajo. Tak sneg je zapadel tisto noč, ko sem jo videl.
Gledam obloge novozapadlega snega, ulovljenega med redke preostale liste na tankih upogibajočih se grmovnih šibah; okrog ničle je, zato se skoraj tali.
Redko jo videvam, pravzaprav le še enkrat na leto, takrat, ko se dobimo na večerji. Sam pridem vedno, ona ne. Vsako leto jo čakam. Ugibam, ali letos bo, vendar ne povprašam, raje nestrpno pričakujem. Navadno zamudi ali pa sem sam vedno med prvimi. Raje dospem prezgodaj, da jo bom le mogel gledati od prvega trenutka, že ko bo vstopala in si slačila plašč in še preden bi mogla tudi ona zagledati mene. Če se pojavi, brž vem, da je bilo kljub tveganju popolnega umanjkanja vredno odložiti užitek čokoladnega bombona za to, da bi dobil dva.
Postarali smo se, a je vsak skoraj isti. Samo ona je vedno druga.
Kolikokrat še? Seštevanje je preprosto, nobenega dvoma ni, da je več kot pol za nami. Lepega dne se bo dalo prešteti na prste, čeprav nihče ne bo vedel, kdaj začeti.
Spomin pa, tisti spomin, je ostal … kot da je bilo včeraj. Ugibam, ali se tudi ona enako ekskluzivno spominja mene, ali pogreša. Ne verjamem, da bi moglo biti z njo kaj drugače, kakor je z menoj. Mislim si tako, vem, pa ne. Kaj nama je bilo takrat? Bila sva otroka, čeprav že velika. Bil sem vihrav in cagav. Bila je težka in drugačna. Ne, zdaj je drugačna. Če bi bila takrat takšna, kot je zdaj … Vsi ostali se staramo, moja žena se stara, ona pa je vedno lepša. Le kam skrije svoje gube? To jo bom vprašal, to ženske od malega najraje slišijo, da so videti bolje od vrstnic.
Le kam skrije svoje gube? To jo bom vprašal, to ženske od malega najraje slišijo, da so videti bolje od vrstnic.
Tokrat sem se že na začetku večera namenil k njej, prvi jo bom ogovoril.
Prerinil sem se do nje, pa se je pogovarjala z drugimi. Nato sem pri mizi hotel prisesti k njej, a je bila na praznem stolu poleg njenega obešena torba, rekla je, da je že zasedeno. Je rekla »žal«?
Opazoval sem jo in čakal, da bo na njeni strani dovolj prostora za naju. Končno ob njej ni bilo nikogar, vstal sem od svojega omizja in pristopil k njej. Vprašal sem jo, kako je.
»V redu,« je odvrnila in se mi nasmehnila. Nežno, kakor da bi tudi ona čakala, da se končno srečava. Je bilo res nežno? Ni vprašala, kako gre meni.
Zdaj mi ni več nerodno laskati. Pobaram jo, kaj vendar počne, da je vsako leto mlajša. Zasmejala se je, kot da bi se šalil, in njene oči so sijale bolj, kot so nekoč, čeprav v vseh ostalih z leti ugašajo.
Odprla je usta, kot da hoče odgovoriti, pa se je premislila, kakor da bi izbirala najprimernejše besede. Nato je vendarle nekaj rekla, da ne gre za kreme in dodatke, se mi zdi, da je vsa skrivnost le – za hip je utihnila – v moških.
Nato je vendarle nekaj rekla, da ne gre za kreme in dodatke, se mi zdi, da je vsa skrivnost le – za hip je utihnila – v moških.
Vedel sem, da mora biti to samo burka, s katero se me morda hoče znebiti, in jo vprašal, ali ima novega. Odkimala je, nato so jo poklicali stran in ostal sem sam, vpraznini, v gneči znancev. Tistih, ki jih videvam vsak dan, in drugih, ki jih srečam zgolj tu, enkrat na leto, tako kot njo. Z njo bi bil rad, saj jo imam le ta večer, čeprav živiva na isti strani mesta in je med nama komaj nekaj raztežajev fizične razdalje.
Za našo japonsko češnjo je plot, onstran njega pot, po tej bi šel naprej, zavil rahlo desno, prečkal progo, zatem cesto, vzdolž nje bi hodil do luknje v zidu, onkraj katere ni daleč do njenega okna. Tam bi jo poklical: Maša, me slišiš? Prisluhnil. Počakal. Maša, jaz sem!
»Si zadremal?« me vpraša žena.
Zdrznem se.
»Ne,« pravim, kot da bi rekel, daj mi vendar mir – pa ne smem s tem tonom, takoj bo vedela, da v resnici nisem z njo –, in se odkašljam. »Sneg opazujem, kako pada z dreves. V skoraj enakomernih presledkih se vej –«
Ne posluša me.
»Si me poklical?« rutinsko vpraša. Narava zunaj je ne zanima niti menjavanje letnih časov. Nasmehnem se. Njeno ime zveni skoraj enako kot ženino, in če se bom zmotil ter ga v polsnu izrekel na glas, bo mislila, da sem poklical njo.
»Morda,« ji odgovorim in se ji nasmehnem. »Saj veš, da si vedno v mojih mislih.«
Zadovoljno pokima in mi vrne nasmeh. Njene oči niti v smehljaju ne žarijo kakor njene, pomislim. A tako je bržčas samo zaradi barve, barve oči pa si nihče ne more izbrati sam.
Pusti me, si zaželim. Pusti mi to sanjarijo, samo danes, ko mi je spet sveže pred očmi.
In žena odide, kot da bi slišala in razumela mojo prošnjo.
Pusti me, si zaželim. Pusti mi to sanjarijo, samo danes, ko mi je spet sveže pred očmi.
In žena odide, kot da bi slišala in razumela mojo prošnjo.
Zaprem oči in se z dlanmi oprimem podloženega naslonjala za podlahti. Moje roke grabijo najboljše, največje, najbolj dišeče … zasnežene bele griče. Izgubljam se v njih, da traja. Traja. Gazim. Izgubim se; zdrsim.
*
Po večerji smo nadaljevali v pivnici, znašla sva se v istem avtu, ona spredaj pri vozniku, jaz za njo. Nenadoma si je po poti premislila, postala je nemirna, rekla je, da mora domov.
»Ah, vendar ne boš šla domov tako zgodaj!« sem ji prigovarjal.
Vem, da me je slišala, čeprav ni odgovorila. Vem, da je razumela, da bi jo ta večer rad imel ob sebi. Jo gledal, dihal vonj njenega parfuma – enak se mi zdi, kot je bil lani, agrumi in cedra –, ji povedal, da je še toliko vsega, kar bi jo rad vprašal, ker tega nikoli prej, ko je bil ves čas nepretečen in ko je bilo pred obema še vse, nisem znal.
Vem, da me je slišala, čeprav ni odgovorila. Vem, da je razumela, da bi jo ta večer rad imel ob sebi.
»Moraš res že iti?« sem razočarano ponavljal, s stisnjenim grlom, kot na postaji, s katere je potegnil vlak ravno v hipu, ko sem zasopel pritekel tja.
Ona pa je rekla le še: »Papa.« Odrinila je težka avtomobilska vrata in razprla dežnik v moker snežni metež, ki jo je zagrnil takoj, ko jih je zaloputnila. Z dlanjo sem sunkovito obrisal zarošeno šipo in gledal za njo s čelom na mrzlem steklu, pa je že izginila, kakor da je nikoli ne bi bilo.
Od jutri, pomislim, bo le še tristo štirinajst dni.
THE LONGING
»What’s on your mind?« asks the wife.
»Nothing,« I drone. Looking away; I should’ve said something concrete, a bone to chew so she doesn’t keep digging. Men aren’t supposed to daydream; I should’ve known better.
I’m sitting in the armchair that I’ve pulled up close to the terrace door, so near that I can breathe on the glass and watch the puff of condensed moisture vanish in an instant.
I observe the patches of freshly fallen snow caught between the few remaining leaves on the thin, bending shrub branches; it’s around zero degrees, so it’s almost melting. From the branches of the Japanese cherry, delicate flakes continuously drift down; the window is tightly shut, yet each time, as if I were hearing things, I sense the brief, startled rustles of the snow as it scatters to the ground, and the branches swaying from that motion. Snow like this was falling the night I saw her.
I observe the patches of freshly fallen snow caught between the few remaining leaves on the thin, bending shrub branches; it’s around zero degrees, so it’s almost melting.
It rarely ever happens anymore—maybe once a year, when the class hosts its traditional dinner. Unlike her, I’m always there, annually anxious with uncertainty. Obsessively wondering whether she’ll show up, though I never ask. I’d rather be tormented by expectation. She’s usually late, or maybe I’m always early. I prefer to arrive ahead of time so I can look at her from the moment she walks in, as she’s taking off her coat, and before she’s able to notice me. When she appears, I immediately know that it was worth it—despite the risk of complete deprivation—to postpone the pleasure of a single chocolate candy in order to earn two.
We’ve grown older, yet each one is almost the same. Only she is always different.
How many more times? The math is simple: there’s no doubt that more than half is behind us. One fine day, it will be possible to count them on one’s fingers, though no one will know when to start.
But the memory, that particular memory has remained … as if it were yesterday. I wonder if she remembers me the same exclusive way, if she ever misses me. I don’t believe it could be any different with her. That’s what I think, but I can’t know for sure. What was it, between us back then? We were kids, just a couple of big children. I was mercurial and timid. She was heavy and different. No, now she is different. If only she’d been then as she is now … Everyone else is aging, my wife is aging, while she just keeps getting more and more beautiful. In what freakish place is she hiding her wrinkles? That’s what I’ll ask her, that’s what women, from a young age, have always loved to hear: them looking better than their peers.
This time I went over straight away, determined to strike up a conversation.
I elbowed my way closer but she was already talking to someone. I tried sitting next to her. A bag was hanging on the adjacent empty chair; she told me it was taken. Did she say ‘too bad’?
I watched her, waiting until there would be enough room on her side for the two of us. Finally, there was no one beside her. I immediately left my table and approached her. I asked her how she was.
»Fine,« she replied, smiling. Gently, as if she, too, had been waiting for us to finally meet. Was it gently? She didn’t ask how I was doing.
No longer afraid to compliment, I asked her about her secret of looking younger every year. She laughed out loud as if I were joking, her eyes shone even more brightly than they used to, while everyone else’s grow dimmer with age.
She opened her mouth as if to answer, then reconsidered, as if perhaps choosing the most appropriate words. Finally, she did say something—that it isn’t about creams and supplements; the whole secret, she paused for a moment, lies in men. I knew it must just be a tease, perhaps a way to brush me off, so I asked if there was someone new.
Finally, she did say something—that it isn’t about creams and supplements; the whole secret, she paused for a moment, lies in men.
She shook her head, then she was called away, leaving me in a crowd of familiar faces. Those I see every day, and others I only encounter here, once a year, just like her. I want to be with her, it’s the only evening I can have her to myself even though we live on the same side of town and there are barely a few arm spans of physical distance between us.
There’s a fence behind our Japanese cherry tree, beyond it a path. I would follow it first, then take a slight right, across the railway tracks, then the road, walk along it to the hole in the wall, and once I’m through it isn’t far to her window. There I would call out: Maša, can you hear me?
Listened. Waited. Maša, it’s me!
*
»Did you doze off?« the wife asks.
I wince.
»No …« I say peevishly, as if saying leave me alone – best cut the attitude or she’ll know right away I’m not really with her – clearing my throat.
»I’m watching the snow crumble from the trees. It’s almost like there’s a rhythmic pattern–«
She’s not listening.
»Did you call me?« she asks routinely. The nature out there doesn’t really interest her, nor the changing seasons. I smile. Her name sounds almost exactly like my wife’s. If I ever blunder, moaning it in half-sleep, she’ll probably think I was calling her.
»Maybe,« I answer, grinning. »You know you’re always on my mind.«
She nods, pleased, smiling back. Even then, her eyes don’t sparkle as hers do, flashes through my thoughts. But that’s probably just because of the color; no one can choose their own eye color.
Leave me be, I pine, please let me have this daydream, just for today, while it’s still so fresh and vivid.
And my wife leaves, as if she had heard and understood my plea.
Leave me be, I pine, please let me have this daydream, just for today, while it’s still so fresh and vivid.
And my wife leaves, as if she had heard and understood my plea.
I close my eyes and I grip the cushioned armrests. My fingers grab the best, the largest, the most fragrant … snow-covered white hills. I’m getting lost in them, so it lasts. It lasts. I’m trudging, I’m dispersing. I slip away.
*
After dinner a few of us headed to the pub. We ended up in the same car, her in the front next to the driver, me behind her. Suddenly, she changed her mind along the way, grew restless, saying she needed to go home.
»Oh, but you can’t be leaving this early, can you!« I tried to persuade her.
I know she heard me even though she didn’t answer. I knew she understood I wanted her by my side that evening. To watch her, breathe in the scent of her perfume – almost identical to last year’s, cedar and citrus –, to tell her there’s so much I wanted to ask, things I never knew how to ask before, when time was still young and everything was still ahead of us both.
I know she heard me even though she didn’t answer. I knew she understood I wanted her by my side that evening.
»Do you really have to go?« I kept on repeating, my throat tight, like at the station when the train pulled away just at the moment I came running there, out of breath.
But all she said was: »Bye bye«. Shoving at the heavy door, she opened her umbrella into the wet, snowy blizzard that swallowed her up immediately after she slammed the door shut. I’m staring at her leaving, my frenzied palm hastily wiping the fogged window, forehead pressed against the freezing glass, but she has already vanished, as if she had never been there.
Starting from tomorrow, it strikes me, there will only be three hundred and fourteen days to go.
