reading

1 czarda - a roadside tavern frequented by country folk and travelers

2 baba - grandmother or old woman in general, also an old crone

3 OZNA - the secret police in Yugoslavia after World War II (as feared as the KGB in the Soviet Union)

4 halgato - a special way of playing the violin; a piece of music so played

5 bači – uncle; used as a form of address to show respect

6 in 1948, Yugoslavia refused to participate in the Cominform, which caused a rift between the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia, and for a number of years following that, everything even remotely connected to the Soviet Union, or Russia as it was usually referred to, was automatically suspect.

7 attending church was frowned upon under communism, especially for people with state jobs, like teachers, doctors, etc.

Instead of whom does the flower bloom [Elektronski vir] / Feri Lainšček ; [translated by Tamara M. Soban]. - El. knjiga. - Ljubljana : Slovene Writers’ Association : Slovene P.E.N. : Association of the Slovene Literary Translators, 2017. - (Litterae slovenicae)

The wind that had untangled the clouds and licked them down to a line far on the horizon has subsided. The heavy gusts have retreated into pools and thickets, the breezes have taken shelter among hazel bushes and in alder treetops. Even the gentlest breath of air has quieted down under some spring leaf or petal. And out of the mystery into which the sun will sink any moment now, gossamer evening mists rise, weaving blankets for everything that wishes to sleep.

He’ll wait for the dew to settle on his violin. Wait he must, for only then do the strings take on their distinct sound. After that, he’ll flex his bow and tap it against the bridge. If the echo is crisp and the twang doesn’t startle any benumbed bird, he’ll know he can fiddle without disturbing a soul. As for his music being construed as a mockery—it won’t be; human eyes and ears are far away.

There on the left, where the fog momentarily reaches its highest point and is as thick as milk, there lies Big Village. It’s half an hour’s walk away, and at least another half hour from one end to the other. But even if it took less time, it’s a place Halgato never wishes to set foot in again.

There on the right—there is no fog, yet nothing can be seen over the heather—there lies Lacki Roma. It’s half an hour’s walk away, and can be traversed in a single lungful of breath. But even if it shrunk some more, or were scattered like ashes from a dead fire by a squall, it’s a place Halgato will never set foot in again.

Because only here in between, where nothing but sedge conquers the marshy blind river arm, does everything belong to him.

Because only here can he fiddle, knowing that no-one but God listens. And God knows that his song seeks and demands nothing.

They say you’re not quite right in the head if you play exceptionally well when the moon is full. If you’re full of yourself during her time, just as she’s full of herself. But then—what could be purer than her large face watching you, watching as though keeping an eye on you? How could it not seem to Halgato that she had, again, stopped to lend him her ear? Such an entranced listener is easily noticed, be it in a czarda1, at a fair, or—God have mercy on us—in the sky. When that happens, you can not refrain from singing the most delicate of melodies that has ever stirred inside you. And Halgato in particular can not restrain himself, when, of all the creatures crawling this earth, the moon has turned to him—a miserable Gypsy!

What would you like then, moon, you cuckoo—stay still!—you, who roam as Halgato once roamed. You, who will never tire of traveling, it seems, while Halgato did a long time ago. His song will not say anything you haven’t known longer or better, but that’s not the point.

Halgato is filled with foreboding, for someone has wandered into his bleakness and is now, there, making his way straight toward him. He can not recall ever having been disturbed here—and certainly not at night. In vain would hunters lie here in wait. Pheasants and ducks are stalked during the day. And Gypsies have given up poaching and prefer to steal geese and chickens, or no longer have the heart even for that. Who, then?

He has stopped to straighten his tie. Or perhaps loosen it. Or roll down his trouser legs, shake off the dew and the flower petals, iron the creases with his hands.

Oh, God! says Halgato to himself and steps closer. I swore never to shake another man’s hand—but your hand, my boy, I will! I vowed never to look another man in the eye—but you, big boy, I will! You miserable Gypsy wretch, it really truly is you! he proffers his hand. I haven’t seen you in five, six, seven years. Or twice as long as that. And even now I don’t know whether you’re alive or playing a trick on me?!

I’m alive alright, Halgato! Pišti touches Halgato’s cheek with his own. And, strangely, Halgato believes him, although he’s come at a strange hour and is stranger than strange. His cheeks have sunken and wrinkled, as though his absence amounted to ten, twenty, thirty years even. His touch is cold, as though Gypsy blood no longer coursed under his skin. And he’s dressed as though he worked for City Hall, for the Chairman of the Local Council himself. Hey! Hoy! Halgato shakes his head. What am I to make of your gold tie-pin, and your rings, all these big, heavy rings, and—oh, I can’t take my eyes off them—your plastic teeth!?

I’d light a fire, but I don’t have any dry kindling at hand, says Halgato. Because I only make a fire when I’m hungry. And I’m hardly ever hungry these days.

And this oh well is the first thing that Halgato really recognizes. How come you thought of me? he is suddenly joyful. And how, how on earth did you find me? They couldn’t have told you in Lacki Roma?

What do you mean—you didn’t go to Lacki Roma? You came straight here? From wherever you’ve been all these years you came straight here?

No, Halgato, Pišti smiles wanly. I’ve been here a long time. I’ve been listening to your violin again for a long time. All spring. All winter. All fall I’ve been listening— he bites back his words, well, not exactly all fall. But when the chestnuts started falling, I was already here.

Halgato does not understand. He rises to his feet. He lays a hand on Pišti’s shoulder. Pinches him. Looks him in the eye. What do you mean? he asks. What in the name of the God who mocks us Gypsies do you mean? You came in the fall and you didn’t go to Lacki Roma? You listened to my music and you never let me know you were here? Hey! You didn’t make any effort, black boy, you never even farted to my music, you piece of shit!

I was building! says Pišti. I built in the rain and I built in the snow. And I built by day and by night. I spent all my time building. Except sometimes towards morning I’d go into the sedge. And then, you see, your music gave me the strength to go on building in the morning.

Building, building, building! Halgato can’t stand still with anger. Building what? And why were you building, you Gypsy shit!?

I built myself a villa in Big Village! now Pišti raises his voice. A large, wide, tall house. A fabulous villa.

Well! spits Halgato. That explains it! Now it’s all clear to me! And now that it’s all so clear, may a thunderbolt from hell strike me.

But Pišti sits by the dead fire all the same. He sits with his back straight and his head held high, as he has always done, everywhere. And he knows that Halgato is contemplating his sorry fate. Cursing him in his thoughts. Because he always curses him when he especially hates him, or when he especially loves him. And today is a day he must surely hate him and love him all at once.

But the more he dreamed of a great night that would forever cover Lacki Roma with its blanket, the more forcefully did light penetrate his world. Finally his mother, Tereza, forbade him to close his eyes during the day. If she caught him with his eyes shut, she pulled on his ears; one backwards and one forwards. Or she yanked his hair so furiously that his scalp ached the remainder of the day. At the same time she shrieked, imploring God to finally open the boy’s eyes, for only those who traveled the world with their eyes wide open could hope not to stray.

The boy could not make out her prayer, since it did not seem to him that he was going anywhere.

His father, Mariška, who would always return just when the boy had forgotten about him, came wandering back once again—this time to stay. There were cuts and scratches on his chest and stomach that Tereza had to wash out with soapy water. Then she slathered the wounds with hedgehog grease and plastered them with fresh grasses. But Mariška was not particularly grateful for her care and concern; invisible wounds evidently smarted far worse. Baba2 Hotile wished a hundred times over they’d cut off my head—and now they will too! he repeated over and over. Damn, goddamn, a hundred times damn Baba Hotile and her crazy head and her crazy mind! he raged, lying on the cot. I’d kick her in her trap if she could still open it! I’d slice her back to ribbons, if she still had one!

Let Baba be! Tereza pleaded with him. Baba’s dead. You’re not supposed to blame the dead for anything.

It was Baba Hotile and none other! howled Mariška. No other baba ever predicted my death! All of them—all the hags in the world always said I’d live in style and go that way too, except for Baba Hotile—she couldn’t get it into her head! Damn, goddamn, a hundred times damn Baba Hotile and her crazy head and her crazy mind—she couldn’t get her head around it and I can’t get my life around it, that’s how it is—it’s all her fault!

Done something, I’ve done shit! shouted Mariška. Just let someone point a finger at me—his finger will wither! Let someone say one word—his tongue will stiffen! Let someone come after me—a thunderbolt will blast him into poppy seeds! he raved all night and wouldn’t allow the oil lamp to be put out.

The boy burrowed under his blanket, but there was no darkness there either to dream himself into. He tossed and turned on the brink of sleep and in vain tried to kick his way out of the scarlet light that scorched him like live fire. Then, through this intrusive light seared the outline of his father’s intrusive face. His stiff whiskers tickled the boy’s nose, his dry chapped lips slid along the boy’s forehead, only occasionally touching him warmly. What did you say the kid’s name was? Mariška turned toward the mother in the middle of the kiss that was so unpleasant to the boy.

Oh! she drew in her breath. Heaven and earth, you’ve even forgotten his name again!?

Forgotten! I haven’t forgotten anything! the old man lost his temper. The kid’s simply Kid! It’s just that now I’d like to know his real, Christian name. God knows I don’t want to die before I hear and memorize his name.

Šanji? a surprised Mariška turned to face his wife. Eh, eh! Crazy female mind, you crazy woman’s head—how could you give my child a name like that? And he bent over the boy again and asked him: Are you really Šanji?

Šanji!? repeated the old man. And then to himself: Šanji! Šanji! Šanji? No—that won’t do! That won’t do at all! It’s just that, he nibbled at his fingernail, where do I find the time now to think of another, proper name? They can come after me at any moment! Any minute now the vultures can waltz in through the door!

Mariška! Tereza presently called to him in a subdued and changed voice. Have you really done something so horrible that they’ll take you away now and make you die? Or have you only, the Lord willing, gone out of your mind?

It’s true alright, mumbled the husband. The OZNA3 has got it in for me! Then he lay down just long enough to unleash his tears and gather new strength. You, Kid, he whispered to the boy. I never had enough time to ever think of you. Or to ask God to watch over you while I was away. I never even brought you a handful of candy, though I should’ve showed you sugar at least, so that you’d know there are sweet things in this world too. And see, now that I honestly want to do all these things, I’m out of time again! The OZNA agents will be here any minute—to hell with them and let the devil shit on their heads! He spit high into the air and stood up before the spittle came hurtling back.

He shoved and pressed the instrument under the boy’s chin, turning it this way and that and adjusting it. He poked the boy with it and struck at his fingers, making the boy whimper and clench his teeth. He shifted the boy’s hands on the bridge and helped him navigate the bow, making the strings groan and squeal. Tereza observed this torture for a while, then took pity on the boy and started screeching at the old man to leave the child alone, at least now, in the middle of the night. But Mariška, who kept glancing at the doorway as though the OZNA agents were going to peep through the tarpaulin at any moment, pushed her away and even whacked her with the violin a few times. He feverishly explained to his son how to correctly pluck the strings and how to draw out the most beautiful sounds with the bow. He lovingly stroked the boy’s sweaty forehead, only to poke and pinch him a moment later, and swear at him as though he were a beast.

If you’re first string, you’ll be the boss and tell everyone what to do! he told him. If you’re second fiddle, you’ll only have one guy above you who can order you about! he shouted into the boy’s ears amidst their terrible music. And even if you’re just a common fiddler, people won’t be able to push you around as they please—oh, no! Just be careful you always have some money tucked away in a secret pocket! he waved the bow in the boy’s face. You always have to have at least enough to buy a new fiddle in case someone smashes yours over your head or some drunk broad pisses in it.

Because as soon as he’d caught some piece of advice or a snatch of melody in the midst of all the havoc which was making him dizzy and paralyzing his fingers, the old man drew the bow differently and sang a different tune. Only occasionally would Mariška be so overcome by a sad song that he took the instrument into his own hands and played it himself. Then the boy could close his eyes for a few moments and rub his sore hands. And the mother could sigh loudly that the old man’s senses must have gotten befuddled by blood and that it would be best if the devil came to claim him.

My wife, oh my wife, what will you do, he played next to her ear, what will you do when I die, when I die, he gently leaned the fiddle on her shoulder, and I’ll die for sure, yet I don’t have enough money even to get drunk.

Mariška swore loudly and asked the boy: Do you see how white my violin is? Why do you think this violin’s so white?

So that you can find it if you ever lose it at night! the old man taught him and pushed the fiddle back under the boy’s chin.

The bedlam in Mariška’s shack roused the entire settle–ment. First the old men started coughing. Then the babies became restless. Their mothers raised their voices and sullenly cajoled the children back to sleep. Half-awake, the men grumbled and swore until their sleepy anger inflamed them, and they sat up sharply in their cots. In short: All of Lacki Roma came to a boil and bubbled like a Gypsy stew. And that was definitely cause enough for alarm. Torn from their dreams, the neighbors called to one another through the thin walls of their reed-huts and wooden shacks to ask about the commotion. They cursed Gypsies, they lamented their common lot and tried to guess whose anguish had this time been uncorked.

Finally old Čejč raised the canvas hanging over the doorway and, bowed double, peeked into the interior. A dog’s work, Mariška! he yelped in his lispy voice. Honest folk sleep while you people carry on as though you’ve eaten funny mushrooms!

Next to Čejč’s gray head the even grayer head of his wife Marga bobbed, and she added: What funny mushrooms, Čejč! Not even store-bought poison has any effect on these Gypsies! They won’t rest until they rip the last nerve out of us old people who gave them their souls and brought them into this world!

Mariška, who’d been bewitched by the music, remembered the OZNA again. With a jerk he jumped up and banged his head against the ceiling beam. He howled and rubbed the painful spot with both hands. The blanket he’d held wrapped around him slipped down, revealing the open wound.

Hoo! exhaled the faces in the doorway. By now others had crowded around Čejč and Marga.

A dog’s work, Mariška! lisped and spluttered Čejč again. What in the world is going on here? You have such a disaster in the house, while we sleep like sheep and don’t even hear you calling for help!

I’m not calling for anything or anyone! Mariška at last regained his breath. Why bother calling when I know I’m beyond help?

Eh, man, man! Marga rubbed her palms together and wiped them on her skirt. What are you raving about—if it’s just your guts that are hanging out, we can stuff them back in.

Nothing’s hanging out, Marga, the wounded man placed his hand over his bloodstained stomach, and his laceration ceased to seem so very dreadful. It’s just that, he gazed gloomily at the multiplying faces, other, grimmer things are looming over me! The kind of things, my people, that neither God nor the devil can help me with!

The crowd pressed closer and breathlessly waited for him to finally reveal his plight. Also Tereza and the boy, in whose lap rested the white violin, stretched their necks in curiosity. For a moment Lacki Roma was pervaded by the silence of foreboding. And into this silence, which created the impression that the whole world was listening, Mariška uttered: I knifed an OZNA agent!

And although Mariška kept protesting, the men were firm in their decision. Down to the last one, they agreed to build barricades on all the trails leading into Lacki Roma, to defend one of their own to the last ounce of their strength. Let them come, let them try! yelled Fat Babič. They’ll learn once and for all that Gypsies are people too. Scabby Fico sharpened his long hunting knife with a black stone and shaved the hairs off his forearm.

Let’s think this over, people, let’s think it over! he spluttered. I don’t have anything against your plans, but let’s just think them over! OZNA men are partisans—worse than partisans! And not even the Germans could weed them out!

Eeeh! Scabby Fico waved his sharpened knife. The Germans weren’t beaten by OZNA agents or by partisans, but by the Russians! That’s why I’m telling you: The OZNA are shit! The partisans are shit! And we Gypsies are Russians!

But the majority abandoned their previous determination. They fidgeted and exchanged glances until it seemed obvious to everyone that Mariška should simply be hidden. That’s right, hide him! Lame Miška finally had his say. I tell you people, there are holes under our shacks—and only I can tell you that, because I built all your shacks—holes where no man nor dog nor God can find you once you’re in them. But we have to do it as soon as possible, and then patch things up!

And then we’ll give them the finger–let them search for a man who sank into the ground! Scabby Fico drove his knife into the dirt.

All right, people, all right! old Čejč lisped again. But let me tell you this—I know, and so do those of you who survived the great war—these devils often burned down the whole house because of one hidden man! And it’s also true that they often torched the whole village for hiding one man!

And when he then unsteadily looked over at his father, he saw Mariška smiling—silently and with a strange pout, but smiling. Stop ranting, men, let’s be reasonable! he told them gently, still smiling. I’ve told you a hundred times I didn’t come back to beg for help. And I didn’t return to cause you trouble either, he paused meaningfully. I just came—I’d be hard put to tell you now why exactly I came!

Mariška! What are you thinking, Mariška!? Fat Babič and Scabby Fico cried out in one voice. That we’d leave you hanging just like that? the former smashed his fist against his open palm. Us, who grew up together in this place? the latter hooked his forefingers.

He played for Fat Babič and Scabby Fico, who were the only ones to stand by him. He played for old Čejč, who disseminated his old man’s wisdom any old way: To individual advantage or disadvantage. He played for all those who had remained silent simply because they were always silent. And for all those who had this time remained silent, because they were more terrified of the OZNA than of their dead forefathers.

And Mariška played on the top string for the women and the girls squatting in the dark or peeking from the window sills. And for the children, who were still free of the knowledge that his tune was little by little alighting on their souls, and that some of them would spend their lifetimes living out its sadness.

Then the fiddler lifted his bow and said: What have I done? I haven’t done a thing! I haven’t even planted a tree in my life. Only this pup will stay behind me after all this, Mariška caressed the boy and placed the violin in his lap. And God help you, Gypsies, if any of you ever forget that I christened him and that his name from now on is Halgato!

For a long while afterward, they loudly cursed his unlucky star and the lousy Gypsy life and they scoffed at senseless Gypsy death. But the boy was unsure; to him it seemed that his father had simply gone off into the dark.

The day after her husband’s departure Tereza swept out the shack and burned the rubbish. Then she did not touch a thing. She forgot about hunger, thirst, cleanliness, her child; she was not moved by Halgato’s screeching fiddle nor by the fact that while so engaged, he kept his eyes closed. With a mute gesture she shooed away the anxious and curious neighborhood faces who peeked too closely, until they learned to look at the ground, even in coincidental passing.

And more and more frequently she began wandering out of Lacki Roma, taking paths to avoid the women, who still pitied her, and the men, who let her know that she was alone again. At first everybody thought that she roamed the marshes and lingered by the river, but then her walks gradually became longer. Very often she came back only after the boy had despaired of waiting. Once, only once during an unexpected visit she, strangely, did not look through him but sat down next to him and even touched him. You, she asked, do you cover yourself well at night?

Good, she nodded. Good. And all the other things will work out just fine some day. You’ll see. God’ll take pity on us. He knows it isn’t right what he’s doing. He’s known that all along, it’s just that he can’t find the time for the two of us. But some day, you’ll see, some day he’s going to make it all up to us.

The boy wanted to believe her, but too many doubts transpired. For a long, long time he watched his mother’s profile, wondering whether to voice them. Then he decided. You! he prodded her. What if none of this is God’s fault? Maybe the devil has always been in you and that’s why God’s too afraid to come near!

And I’ve also been thinking only bad things about you all this time, he added.

You too have been thinking only bad things, she smiled melancholically, what could you have thought about, my little chickadee? What’s there for anyone to think, and whose business is it anyway? Gypsies! she said and was silent for a few long moments. Her hands rested lifelessly in her lap, her chin was wedged between her knees, and her eyes squinted through the doorway—most probably at the clouds. Halgato thought that she was entranced again and that their chat had been only a brief and haphazard re-entry into this world. But then his mother suddenly got up and said: I’ve got the right—it’s my right! Because so far there’s been nothing! Because Mariška never took care of his family. He never brought home a single penny. And then he went and did this to us.

Sure: Died! she flew into a temper. That’s the easiest thing to do—die! Leave the others—what does he care—let them starve, beg, howl!

They thought that she was in such a state because she had refused to venture near her husband’s surkalo before he left. Probably she’d been worried that he would have put it in too deep and left her stranded with a baby which she would, of course, have to provide for. Even old Marga, who was the most incredulous and always contradicted everyone, believed that the unfortunate man held it against her and was for this reason now coming back to squat on her soul. But at the same time she claimed that Tereza had only done the right thing, because she had prevented an even greater calamity. The dead hold special power over a child born after his sire has passed on to the other world. For, before he first cries, his ears are filled with such filth that neither spells nor a good beating can ever drive it out.

She claimed that quite a few had been born in Lacki Roma like that, but she did not dare point them out. Halgato was convinced that her Čejč was one of them.

Then Baba Fikale, who was no younger nor any less mouthy than old Marga, brought the terrible news of Mariška’s ordeal from Big Village.

There’s something here that stinks to high heaven! she whispered to everyone who came to crouch by her black hearth. I’ll put my hand in the fire— she shoved it into the flames, —that there’s something terribly rotten that’s mixing with our air! Because that Mariška, the one that everybody’s talking about there now, wasn’t the real Mariška! Cizi Neni says so, she’s the one he brought chewing tobacco to when he went to Town, and she liked him more than any other white woman liked a Gypsy. Janči from the committee says the same, the one who always kissed Mariška’s violin when he played it close to his ear and who said you couldn’t find another Gypsy like him if you hunted high and low. And Big Pejpi Bači says so; he’s the one whose four daughters Mariška married off with his music and would’ve married off the fifth one too if it hadn’t been for this. In short: Everybody says that Lucifer took hold of Mariška that night! the old woman rolled her eyes demonically. Lucifer himself, or even a greater devil! she punctured holes in the warm smoke with her fists and squinted through them into the faces. Because that very night—if you remember—I also said that those raw wounds the poor man had on his chest were made by no ordinary knife and gushed no ordinary blood.

Somebody remarked that the cuts were most probably made by the OZNA agent when he and Mariška were wrestling for their lives.

But Baba would not believe it. Maybe they were made—or maybe not! she shook her head. Because: Judging by Mariška’s condition when they saw him in Big Village on that day we could draw many conclusions.

And Baba told them over and over; sometimes down to the last tiny detail, sometimes her own version. But she never forgot to mention that on that morning, when Mariška walked into Big Village from Lacki Roma, he no longer had human eyes. And it was allegedly with those terrible eyes that he compelled the inn-keeper’s servant to roll out a whole barrel of wine at daybreak and then give him a jug instead of a glass. Then Mariška ordered OZNA agents to be sent for, and committee members and generals and Tito himself, while he tilted the barrel and downed all that poured out. All who had gathered in the square at that hour said that he drank more than was believed humanly possible. And disbelievers even today peek into the cask and measure its emptiness. But nobody dares touch the remaining wine because it is rumored to be rank. It reeks of that which took possession of Mariška. Of that which is still in the air.

It was said that by the time the OZNA arrived, Mariška was already bathing in wine.

Of each new jug he spilled part down his throat, part over his head. And laughed at those who laughed at him. And scowled at those who scowled at him. He told the former and the latter: