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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 42 | volume VIII | May-June, 2005



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 42May-June, 2005
Prose

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p. 1
Andrea Pisac

    There are three unaccountable trips to Budapest wedged between Jaksha and me. They loom over us like unfinished business. Or like an inexpressible confession that has passed its expiry date and after which there is no hope for atonement. The here and now we share is infected with a lethal virus from the brooding and insidious past. Even in this small train compartment, which can hardly take more than two human souls, those three trips he took lay between us like a trail of junk – discarded rusty cars or broken cookers, rotting slowly deep in overgrown woods. This is a crime against nature. When I look at villagers from outside of Zagreb, I learn what they do with their junk – they think it has disappeared from the slopes of the Medvednica mountain once it is out of their sight. Even when they revisit the spot where they dumped their old Yugo car, they pretend it is nothing to do with them any more. Is it possible that they no longer see it? These sweating, toiling villagers have more sense than I do. They look at their mischiefs and stubbornly shake their heads in dispute when asked who did it. Can we do the same? Make a conscious choice about what happened in our past?
    Jaksha and I are not sure what to do with our unpalatable past. We can't seem to shake it off. We discarded it into a ditch by the roadside hoping that the elements would make it disintegrate beyond recognition. It didn't work though – we lack the villagers' wisdom which is capable of painlessly severing the tie with a twenty-year old car even after a life-time of faithful service. Instead, we keep coming back to the same place in the woods and we complain about primitive people leaving their junk behind. Shouldn't we just turn around, choose another route and pretend it wasn't us? No, it has surely nothing to do with our past! There is even a slight obsession in the ritual of revisiting the old junk yard. As if we were taking care of a pet, bringing it food and water each day. When actually, Jaksha can't stand junk and dirt. He can hardly put up with a layer of greasy dust combined with the smell of other people's sandwiches that covers the fabric of train seats. I ask him not to smoke






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