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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 86 | volume XV | September-October, 2012



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 86September-October, 2012
Prose

Light in August

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p. 1
Mirana Likar Bajželj

We were driven by southern winds. We sailed northwards, to our home port. August. Behind us is the yellow light of Dubrovnik and the Elafiti Islands, the islands of Mljet and Hvar. With us is the light of August. It bears within it an orange shade of September, of brown October, mixed with the black of November, magical with the flash of December that we can only sense within it.
    We rock in cabins, on deck, on land and within ourselves. We have varnished our nails, waxed our legs, drunk coffee, read the American edition of Marie Claire, compared it with the European one, put on a hat, put on sunglasses, picked up a book, taken off the hat, put the book down. We have removed the hard skin from our heels. Eaten chocolate. Meanwhile our children have asked us a number of times if we are going for ice cream, if we are going to the cinema in the evening, when they can have windsurfing lessons, when we learned to swim and with whom, and when dad first kissed us.
    It's the Sirocco, a southern wind. It presses down on us. Ropes creak, chains rattle, flags flutter.
    Meanwhile our and other men in cabins and on deck spread maps and engines, lay cards, their own and others' wives, cut corners and bills. They show off and examine wounds and mark territory.
    We're quite smart. Quite well off. Quite faithful and committed. Because of everything we see in the August light we make decisions.
     Now we only need three square metres of solitude.
    “I'm going to shower,” we say.
    We dress. Italian women in bathrobes, German in pink dresses, Slavic sisters in a wrap and we're off.
    When we get to the bathroom we see what we saw yesterday. A young black girl leans on the door of the three square metre free zone, her arms folded across her chest, grumbling. We know who is inside, although we do not want to see. Nor did we want to yesterday, although we looked anyway and now we regret it. Inside is a tall white woman, so old that in places her skin is already blue. She has her back to us. On the floor lies an incontinence pad.
    We enter the cubicles and listen to what we heard yesterday, though we did not want to hear it.
    “Luciana! Turn on the water!” croaks the little one.
    “Close the door!”
    “Never mind






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