A Concise Encyclopaedia of the Serbian Soul

Last week, a new series of the Knjizevnost (Literature) magazine was launched (editor Milovan Marcetic). A text by Russian author Victor Yerofeyev, which we convey from Knjizevnost, is loudly echoing in Belgrade's literary circles.

How Does the Russian Brother See Us: Victor Yerofeyev

If you want to know whether men have a future, ask Pavic, the 70-year old living classic of the Serbian literature, with pink lips, rosy cheeks, vivacious eyes and a forehead smooth as a young girl's. Without any trace of life on that forehead, just like that of a young girl. The way he blinks suits him - a he can truly blink cutely - resembling a well cared-for cat that has just had his fill of milk. Pavic has had a lot of milk in his life: his books are read throughout the world. He dresses the same way he blinks, with immense pleasure, but, above all, he keeps to order: in a restaurant, he resembles a French existentialist in a burgundy sweater, in the streets of Belgrade, dressed an a black leather jacket with a raised collar, he smiles to the congregation, blessing thousands of local readers with his autographs, which they can obtain on the Internet, too. In a restaurant, he gives orders to the waiter like a little prince, waving his small hand with relaxed capriciousness:

- Mini, what do you recommend us today?

Mini is walking away from our table with the perfect manners of a Balkan waiter, with a firm bottom, but his face shines with the adoration he feels for him, both as a waiter and a reader. We are sitting at the very center of Belgrade's cultural life: below us is a bookstore and Internet café, the Faculty of Philosophy on one, the Faculty of Philology on the other side.

- Three times have I forgotten the Russian language - says Pavic, speaking Russian words softly. - I have learned it during the German occupation. The Germans never prevented us from learning either Russian or English. If you wanted, you could have learned both. I have an easy time with Pavic: he is obviously proud of the fact that he had overcome his own education, himself, his decades of dealing with both philosophy and philology, while using the ancient Greek and Byzantine rhetoric as foundation for his writing.

- Cultures similar to ours have taught me the resonance of words - a touch of haughtiness appears in Pavic's eyes. - A word must have resonance.

- And how do you accomplish it?

Pavic is not stupid. In my question, he senses a remote possibility of a trap. His haughtiness immediately becomes modesty.

- There is only one rule in literature: do not burden people with words.

You have to agree with that. We clink our glasses. I know this rule is difficult to understand, let alone accomplish it. My mentioning of Pavic during meetings with Belgrade students provoked some sour faces. Judging by this, he only used this rule in his early stories, and later came only a game of the mind. As God is my witness, I am no expert in Pavic. Still, he begins to give me compliments, in a thin voice, comparing me with Mikhail Bulgakov and Gombrovic. I look down on my stake silently. I shoot the darts back at him. We speak about his immense success in Russia. Well, of course he is happy because of it. What kind of a Serb would not like Russia?! I have not yet met one. Even before I arrived, everyone was telling me how they loved the Russians. After other European countries, where you are being watched closely and with such suspicion - as though they are expecting you to snatch a napkin, some cutlery or an ashtray any moment now - to swim in the pool of Serbian love - well, one really has to get used to that. The first thing that comes to mind is typically Russian: What do they all want from me? But then you realize - they want absolutely nothing - they just love you, all the time, without an agenda, mentioning Dostoyevski and the Red Army regardless of whether it is appropriate or not. They are still convinced that we are the liberators, their saviors, and do not pay much attention to the filthy curtains flapping in the wind, appearing through the broken windows of the army headquarters building, destroyed in the U.S. bombing.

- It is good when you do not know the name of the president of the country you are living in - Pavic says.

It could be that his reveries are coming true. In this, the Serbs are like the Russians: they treat reality with admirable indifference. They tell me how they were going to the shelters at the beginning of the bombing, and then got lazy and stopped going, they just lied in bed and listened to the sirens wailing. I kept asking them why was there such hatred between the Serbs and the Croats, why were so many people killed during the war, and they were explaining something, digging through history, but then they would be distracted by some minor issue and it would be impossible to make them go back to the previous topic. One of my Serbian interpreters, immensely in love with the Russians, a true lady with a very erotic sensibility, was gently telling me about the Serbs having loved the Red Army, but, little by little, the story boiled down to the Serbs feeding them, and what they fed them with, and how the Russian soldiers asked her grandmother if there were any girls in her house. The future mother of my interpreter was hiding in the cellar and, since the Russian soldiers who asked about he did not find her, and maybe they were not looking for her, they gave the grandmother a robe of an Orthodox Christian priest, together with his hair stuck on it, out of pure Slavic generosity.

- So your mother was not raped, after all - I rejoiced.

She thought for a while.

- No. But they did rape dad.

- Dad? How?

- Well, just like that.

- Raped how? - I asked in disbelief, refusing to come to terms with such sexual unorthodoxy of members of the Red Army.

- In the butt. Dad was 18 then.

Still, nothing of this could have affected her love for the Russians - it did not and will not. But, the Serbs' relation towards the Americans, with whom they played a game called SMART WAR, is extremely reserved: an alien culture.

- We are the last of the Marxists in the world - the interpreter said. - That is why we are suffering. They, the Marxists, can now travel only to Hungary without a visa. Even if they want to go to Zagreb, they have to wait for a visa for 15 days. It started raining in Belgrade. Long queues in front of embassies.

We parted with Pavic in a very friendly fashion. Regardless of the rosy cheeks, he wisely called himself an old man several times.

- What you are doing is in vain - I told him.

He startled, cautiously, listening. All authors suffer from vanity, it is a professional disease.

- Why?

- Whatever our choice is, we lose - I spoke a phrase that is more French than Slavic.

He agreed, nodding. The more I observed him, the more I understood Serbia's stand towards Europe, but I had to say goodbye to Pavic because, suddenly, everything started shuffling and I found myself face to face with the phantom of the Balkans - Kusturica. Or, to be more precise: what followed is too much even for Kusturica. Belgrade has seen better days. It is shabby in all imaginable and unimaginable places. Profanities are written on run-down walls, which any Russian can understand, even if he does not know a word of Serbian. Shabby are the taxicabs, whose doors open and close in a completely Russian way. Shabby are the jackets and umbrellas.

- Where did you buy these checkered trousers? - my guide asked my interpreter with great interest.

- A friend brought them from Germany. How familiar. We are in yesterday or, maybe, tomorrow, and they - in today.

The hotel I stayed in was a true example of a ruin leftover from the times of "gay" socialist architecture, with rickety beds, mattresses, lamps, corridors, breakfast, floors and the always lit, stinking, clerks' cigarettes. As though the whole of Belgrade, which was a synonym for a free city in the minds of the Soviet liberal intelligentsia, resembled a doll whose head was ripped off. It started already at the Sheremetyevo airport, where I saw what was going on in the Yugoslav airplane. Everything was full of bags, like in Babel's story. Passengers on the plane were sitting on bales of goods. Their knees up to their teeth. As soon as the plane touched down, they all jumped from their seats and started pushing each other around with packages and bags, tied with rope. There are only two countries in the world where the stewardesses are incapable of pacifying this "righteous" bag rebellion of passengers: us and them, births of a feather.

- I am not sure if the director of our publishing house would be able to see you today - the interpreter (in chequered trousers) told me already at the airport. - He is very busy. He promised to reserve at least half an hour for you. He is the chairman of the Association of Serbian Publishers. And, as you know, the Book Show is under way.

"As you know?" I felt at home again. That evening, it turned out that my book, the reason I came here, was still in print and that it was unknown when it would be finished. I could have returned to Moscow immediately but, instead of making a scandal, I decided to have something to eat. I eat with the staff at the headquarters of the company where Miki was working as technical director, the one that did not finish printing my book. He was drunk when we met but sobered up a bit while we were eating, and then, without further delay, he got drunk again and, with his head laid on the table, he sang some Serb songs. Other employees paid no attention to him. They were drinking heavily, too, and, the more they drank, the more they paid attention to the waitress, gently calling her "honey" and hugging her around the waist, like Russian delegates on a business trip. The hugging of the waitress around the waist was in full swing when the director, in person, finally showed up. He was well drunk, we kissed as though we were the closest of relatives and, not five minutes later, we were discussing eternal issues. We first discussed what was better - slivovitza (plum brandy) or vodka. Then the discussion turned towards Karamazovian issues. The director who, at first, was drinking the wine, beer and slivovitza separately, and then more often simultaneously, told me that God has a place reserved for everything in this world. Thus, a criminal - by God's will - is a criminal. That is his fate. There, for instance, he is a director, and a handsome man on top of it. Right? He stroked his ruffled hair with his hand. Well, certainly, I confirmed. And the fate of corn is to be - corn. Miki was singing Serb songs. I said:

- And what about free will?

- Free will in corn? - the director mocked me.

- Well, could there be difference between a man and corn? - I remarked profoundly.

The director disagreed. He saw no difference between a man and corn and, considering that he is the chairman of the Association of Serbian Publishers, who am I to argue with him? We talked for three more hours, and all this time "honey" kept bringing bottles and food on the table, for which she was being rewarded with gentle slaps on the bottom. She liked it: the director in person was slapping her. She was pretty. Everyone were in a good mood. Miki suddenly stopped singing and started staring around in distrust. The director dragged him to the toilette, and they were gone for a whole hour - I have no idea what they were doing there. When they returned, the director told me to freely drink as much as I can. I asked that we go. We went out in the street. To my amazement, the director sat to drive. He was so drunk that, at first, he was only staring at the steering wheel, trying to comprehend what it was for. I know many publishers, but never have any of them, anywhere in the world, driven me in that state. Miki sang and we started a night drive through Belgrade. It was a dangerous journey. Just in case, I asked: "What if the police stops us?"

- They will shoot me - the director replied with certainty.

The streets in Belgrade are not as wide as those in Moscow. We drove right, then left, and we most probably resembled those bumper cars at a fair, with which you can bump, laugh and drive on. We finally came to the roundabout where my "hotel" was, and the director invited me, Miki and another friend, to be guests of his wife and him. While I was thinking about the proposal, the car kept going in circles on the roundabout, faster and faster. We finally ran into a bed of gladiolas and, after running over a few red flowers, we stopped, bumping our heads against the windscreen. Then I went to the hotel to sleep.

On the next day, at the Book Show, I met the director of the publishing house. He was glad that I arrived from Moscow and was cordially asking how I spent the night before. Luckily, Miki, with eyes as red as gladiolas, brought a package of my books, hot from under the press. My guide Zoran, who spoke of himself as a teetotaler, promised to keep the situation under control. After having been interviewed by all the reporters who asked me, the people from the publishing house took me to lunch on a floating restaurant. We were: Miki with his wife, Zoran the teetotaler, two French so-called authors from Lyons (in suits so perfectly neat that only compulsive scribblers could wear them), a Norwegian who was patron of the Book Show and myself. The restaurant was likable, the food tasty. I feared I would have to discuss literature with the French, but for no reason: a folk orchestra appeared. And, since we were the only guests, they sang for us. First their music was heard from somewhere around the corner and then they came to our table, together with an accordion, a violin, a double bass and a guitar: the musicians were old and they played as though they have not been allowed to for the past ten years. They sang beautiful Serb songs, and all the Serbs at the table sang, the Norwegian patron sang, even the French tapped their plates to the rhythm of the music and nodded approvingly. The waiters also sang. Everyone sang and drank with a vengeance. A real river celebration. The music was so loud that it seemed to me as though we have been ripped away from the river bank long ago and were floating down the Danube, and will end up in the Black Sea the next morning. It might have been true. In the middle of the celebration the director appeared, already completely drunk, and joined the signing. The songs were about the soul, the heart, and I found it odd that I understood everything. I suddenly wished I could travel to a Serb village. Zoran the teetotaler played conductor with both arms, alternately calling on the musicians with a whisper, then shouting at the top of his voice. Suddenly everyone sang in Russian, all looking at me. Then I sang a little, firmly believing that there would be no damage from it in this Slavic game. Zoran, dead drunk, promised to take me to a village in the morning to drink goat's milk. On the next morning, the director, wearing black sunglasses, once again introduced himself, explaining that he was unable to see me earlier because he had some urgent business to attend to. Zoran came, too, and, looking away, told me he came to my hotel that morning to take me to a Serb village to drink goat's milk, but did not find me there. I realized that this was enough pretense of Slavic virtues and that I had to run for my life.

I ran to another publishing house, which also published my book. Everything seemed more elite there. Here I once again met my interpreter, with whose father the problems with the Red Army began. She was telling me for a long time how a Russian author, whose book she also translated, could never understand what she wanted from him.

- But, I love you more than him - she said with complete honesty. - He is a mixed breed and you are a true Russian. Or am I mistaken?

I confessed to being 100 percent Russian. Something shined in her eyes so intensely that I thought it would not have been good if I said I was Jewish or American. At that moment the director came - no, not the other one - this one was an author himself. Since I began feeling bored, I happily went to lunch with him, hoping to finally find out what was going on with democracy in Yugoslavia, what did the Serbs think of the horrible war, Milosevic and the American SMART WAR. In order to satisfy my intellectual appetite, some reputed people were invited: a historian, a philosopher and my interpreter, a devoted lover of 100 percent Russian authors. Instead to a mad water restaurant, we went into an exclusive restaurant in some basement, a place where such mindful people can have a rest. It turned out that the restaurant was not at all shabby, strangely enough. The tables were not shabby, and the walls, with various scenes from city life painted on them, seemed completely new. We sat down and ordered Serbian hors-d'oeuvre. Nothing smelled of trouble. A small orchestra appeared, promising silent background music. I asked my first question about the horrible war.

- Should you speak about horrors, you who know human nature from within, you, who wrote the story "Popugaicik"! - the translator shouted.

"Ah, we will finally have a conversation," I thought. But, something surprising happened then. The perfectly sober philosopher who was sitting with us, suddenly started singing. Or, precisely, he sang so loudly and beautifully, that it became clear at once: the man is a professional. He sang a parlor song and started singing another. Guests at other tables became lively, some sang, too, while some applauded the philosopher. His parlor romantic songs spoke less of the soul and heart and more of Gypsy sorrow but, all in all, they were about love, too.

- Does he not have a voice of a priest? - the interpreter shouted in my ear, leaning her entire body against me.

She wanted to ask me something else, but I told her we woould better listen to the philosopher. He sang for half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half. Time passed while he kept singing.

- Serbs have no measure in anything - my interpreter said after three hours of singing.

- Do not burden people with words - I said, quoting Pavic.

We parted at dawn, but the philosopher stayed to sing some more. While I was flying back to Moscow that morning, in need of sleep, he was certainly still singing.

It is possible that he still is.

(Belgrade - Moskva, 2002.)

Translated from Russian Vesna Jevremovic