The sun beats down along the tram line. A few steps and a glance draws us into a small group of people. “Bonjour! Do you speak Italian?” Two blue eyes and a wound on the forehead. A bicycle that could be a caravan, a tree, and some old ladies.
Zoran is instantly part of us. He accompanies us in the wrong direction along the road that leads to the market. Potato peelers, graters, sausage fumes, flying bags, and stray dogs. In the bustle of a day that for some has just begun, the comings and goings of vendors are already nearing their end.
The Miljacka River flows a few meters away from us, slipping away like life. Years in Ciociaria, an ex-wife from Trento, ten languages spoken. From one moment to the next, good Italian turns into German, and in the middle, it becomes English. There’s a word for everyone, without borders, without age.
Zoran’s bicycle makes us wonder if it’s a home, or the sole companion on some adventure. After all, from the electric tales unfolding in a long list of places, it’s easy to imagine a succession of different lives. A drop of rakija, a Latin love, a hippie found on the street and called brother for a few months.
“Om Narasimhaya, give me 3 euros, let’s toast.”
On the back of the bicycle is a plastic crate. From the hands that reach into it, what comes out is a jumble of surprises. A magician’s top hat. A pack of matches with batteries inside, a round mirror cracked on one side, a Coca-Cola, an old grappa bottle with “Yugoslavia” written on it. Everything is a possible gift. Every thought a story to tell.
“I had two euros in my pocket… I’ve been a vagabond since ’87. But in 2002 I was in Italy, and in 2010 again. I married Carmen.”
The wrinkles under my eyes speak volumes about my 55 years. During the war, perhaps he doesn’t even remember exactly where in the world he was, perhaps to teach us that no name can define a land. The rules are home-made. The sun decides them when it rises, cigarette smoke camouflages them in the fog of the future, the present is the only time that exists.
Zoran, vagabond.
.
A few meters away, there are those who make space out of time. Various clangs, clothes like confetti blown by the wind, a bit of shadow between the crowd and the coal. Among the stalls, you find her by looking for the smoke. The signal is clear, the service requires no questions, except for one single choice: 5 ćevapi, 5 marks. 10 for 8. The coffee has lees, it takes the same time to settle that it usually takes to forget why. And it’s an excellent lesson.
Raw onion. Swollen and burnt bread. Next, today like yesterday, tomorrow like forever. Aside from that, there’s not even rakija here, and it’s extraordinary.
The night is always played by someone. A conductor who keeps the out-of-tunes at bay, moderates the silence, and controls the rhythm of moods. “They’re offering this.” History repeats itself. “As long as I’m here, you take.”
The theme always comes back to that. Where is freedom? Where do we go to look for it? Who are we to experience it? Perhaps we no longer know where we started, we certainly don’t remember where we ended up. The door opens, we need a change of scenery. Cigarettes fill the space more than words sometimes, even if the welcome is warm. The throat burns, confused by the cause itself.
Sarajevo, they say, clips your wings. May freedom go away with the stories you have to tell, when your comrades in years gone by were called the Sex Pistols and the Clash.
So Zlaj, or Joe to him, tells us. The small flame that will bring pleasure to his distillation lights up with a steady rhythm, illuminating his face. Long ago, from the same fire, when the Sarajevo bookstore burned, he had saved the books. Theater director, lover of the night.
A.
And that’s it, like what they believe in.
“I’m just looking for the atmosphere. It’s not important to know what you do, who you are, where you come from. Do you know Amarcord?”
“You’re too profound, Zlaj, you’re already in a movie.”
In the Sarajevo night, the old anarchists breathe, rediscovering the light that reveals the deepest paths. The hope is to find the attention of those who understand. Who knows if tomorrow they’ll know they’ve succeeded.
Read it in :
Italiano
