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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 29 | volume V | November-December, 2002



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 29November-December, 2002
Prose

Three Rooms for Two

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p. 1
Olivera Kjorveziroska

    “This is what happened” I told my husband, trying to release his eyes glued to the newspaper.
    “So?” he answered mechanically not being able to detach himself from his favourite article.
    “So?! You don’t think it’s enough that they always take three rooms, and there are two of them?”
    “So what?”
    “Three rooms for two and so what?”
    “They have the money, so they take as many rooms as they want.”
    “Three for two?”
    “So why not?”
    I tried several more times to develop the same dialogue, unsuccessfully of course, and then I gave up on the idea to provoke any interest with my husband, fully plunging into my thoughts as of why two people could possibly take three rooms.
    I had realised long ago that nothing in this world is an accident. The dates we were born on, the jewellery that we wear or not wear, where we go for a holiday and how. I mean in how many rooms. Everything is written in the nature according to someone’s precisely taken measure. As a matter of fact, our huge villa that we had built in Lagadin in some agony, not even thinking why we needed it, the two of us alone. A silent voice came from the unknown depths of the lake that there was a secret connection between our villa and the three rooms of our regular guests. I remembered that ten years ago when we decided to make something in Lagadin at the place that was a gift from my parents, and was there unused since our wedding, my husband insisted so much that the villa was huge, exactly like it was today. “Why do you need it”, said both the builders and the engineer who made the design that we constantly changed, always adding, never taking away, and my husband just said “I want it” and full stop. He “wanted” so much that the villa is huge that I start to doubt it was in some connection with the three rooms of the two Dobrići – Ena and Ante from Zagreb.
    “Where are they now?” my husband asked me, finally closing the newspaper.
    “Ena is probably walking along the beach to Peštani and back, and Ante is over there, smoking and staring at the lake.”
    “How long are they staying?’
    “As always. From 1 July to 1 August. They’re mid way now.”
    “And they don’t even open the third room?” he asked absent-mindedly looking through the window.
    






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