Corner
Stone
Este un colt de strada banal- o straduta ingusta si scurtuta, repezindu-se
in cea cu doar putin mai larga ce urmareste cheiul. Poti trece nepasator
pe linga el, cu privirile mai degraba atrase de frumusetea morocoanoasa
a podului de piatra pe care il strajuieste. Iti trebuie un al saselea
simt - sau o calauza de prin partea locului - ca sa-ti spuna ca locul
acela doar se preface anonim. El este, de fapt, locul in care a fost
asasinat arhiducele Franz Josef. Kilometrul Zero al primului razboi
mondial. Inainte vreme, pe asfalt se gaseau imprimate doua urme de
talpi - pe locul anume in care statea printul Gavrilov cind a slobozit
pistol si macel deopotriva. Razboiul de acum a sters urmele razboiului
de atunci si oamenii de prin partea locului au gasit cu cale ca asa
e mai bine. Kilometrul zero al primului razboi mondial odihneste anonim
pe strada "Beretele Verzi". Nici placa, nici obelisc, nici cruce nu
pastreaza gloria morbida a acelui colt - poate doar memoria oamenilor.
Dar ce rost are sa pui semn pe un anume loc intr-o regiune spumoasa
si exploziva ca un cocteil de sampanie cu dinamita, in care fiecare
colt pietros de strada--dar mai ales memoria oamenilor--poate declansa
un razboi? |
Corner
Stone
It's just a street corner -- a short, narrow alley that joins an only
slightly wider street that follows the dock. You could pass it without
noticing, attracted by the somber beauty of the stone bridge that
spans it. You need a sixth sense, or a local guide, to tell you that
this place only feigns anonymity. This is, in fact, where Archduke
Franz Ferdinand was assassinated. Ground zero of World War One. At
one time, there were two footprints in the asphalt: the place where
Prince Gavrilov stood when he discharged his pistol and the coming
slaughter. The most recent war erased the traces of the Great War
and the locals decided that it was for the best. Ground zero of World
War One rests anonymously on Green Berets Street. No marker, no obelisque,
no cross retains the morbid glory of this street corner. Maybe peoples'
memory does, but what sense does it make to mark a specific corner
in a region as explosive and unsteady as a champagne Molotov cocktail,
in a place where each street corner--and memories above all--can set
off another war? |
Axa Dublin-Sarajevo
Vineri seara in Sarajevo. Toate circiumile, restaurantele, localurile,
gaurile si adapatorile sunt pline pina la refuz. Uneori, usile nici
macar nu mai pot fi deschise: trupuri tinere stau inghesuite unul
intr-altul, bucurindu-se de lucruri ce cu greu pot fi cuprinse in
standardele placerii--zgomot, fum, imposibilitatea de a te misca.
Era insa evident ca ei se bucura de orice clipa petrecuta impreuna,
ca vecinatatea fizica a acelor trupuri poate straine nu ii supara
cu nimic. Erau copii de 15 -16-17 ani, din cei crescuti sub bombe
si prin adaposturi, cu obisnuinta zgomotului, a fumului, a interdictiei
de miscare. De data aceasta, era alegerea lor si se bucurau de ea
ca de un drept din nastere furat si recistigat. Pe principala strada
din centru ne atrage atentia o mica firma ovala, de un verde stralucitor:
Dublin. Intram intr-un gang, ocolim o cladire, trecem pe sub un sir
de rufe puse la uscat si coborim citeva trepte, spre o evidenta fosta
pivnita. Locul nu estemai mare decit o camera obisnuita si poarta
amprenta a ceea ce oamenii considera in genere a fi "irlandez": lumini
verzi, mobilier de lemn brun, tarii sclipitoare. Ne croim drum cu
coatele prin fumul viscos si intepator, unduindu-ne printre alte zeci
de trupuri tinere. Ne asezam la masa de la care tocmai se ridica un
grup si - ca straini ce suntem - privim in jur, unica "distractie".
Am un vag sentiment de neadecvare, dar nu imi dau seama de unde vine.
Trebuie sa fie sucul de portocale, imi zic. Ce rost are sa vii vineri
seara in "Dublin" si sa bei suc de portocale? Imi iau apoi seama:
muzica, aste e, muzica. Difuzoarele duduie si trosnesc sub ritmurile
balcanice, in ceva dincolo de "etno-pop", ceva venit de atit de adinc
din vina acestor locuri ca nu mai incape in genuri. Cei din jurul
meu cinta si ei, din rarunchi, intr-un cor dizarmonic, frumos pina
la lacrimi. Lacrimi imi curg si mie, si plecam din "Dublin" fara sa
stiu de ce lacrimez: de prea mult fum, de la sucul de portocale (cred
cu tarie in puterea de intoxicare a unui suc de fructe, in conditii
speciale) sau pur si simplu din solidaritate. O luam alene pe stradutele
din Bascarsjia - vechiul (si inca activul) bazar. E trecut de miezul
noptii, e rece si ploua. E liniste si e pace. De undeva, dintre baracile
de lemn, razbate catre noi un firisor de melodie - nimic mai mult
decit o vioara, o taburina si un flaut. Incremenesc locului de uimire:
in fata unei crisme bosniace, trei tineri imbracati in negru, cu fulare
verzi la git, cinta muzica irlandeza. Vrajita, ma pregateam sa trec
acestea printre povestile frumoase si inexplicabile ce fac rostul
vietii. Cind mi-am adus aminte ca Goran Bregovic, un sirb care compune
muzica filmelor bosniacului Emir Kusturica, a compus si niste minunate
cintece irlandeze. E altceva, e altceva la mijloc. Si am jurat ca,
la prima ocazie, sa gasesc, in spatele usilor de lemn din Bascarsjia,
tunelul care uneste Sarajevo si Dublin. |
The Dublin-Sarajevo
Axis
Friday night in Sarajevo. Every bar, restaurant, dive, and hole-in-the
wall is filled to bursting. Sometimes, doors can't be closed: young
bodies stand crowded against one another, happy for things difficult
to count as standards of happiness--noise, smoke, the inability to
move. But it is clear that they are rejoicing in every minute spent
together, that the physical proximity of strangers' bodies bothers
no one. These are children, aged fifteen to seventeen, grown in shelters
under bombardments, used to noise, smoke, the interdiction of movement.
This time, they crowd together by choice and they are glad of it as
if it were a stolen and regained birthright. On the main street we
notice a small business with a bright, oval sign: DUBLIN. We enter
through a passage, go around a building, pass under a loaded clothesline,
and descend a few steps to what was obviously a former basement. The
place is no bigger than an average room and has the earmarks of something
that can pass generically for "Irish": green lights, brown wooden
furniture, sparkling beer spouts. We elbow our way through the thick,
stinging smoke, weaving between dozens of young bodies. We sit at
a table just as a group is leaving and amuse ourselves looking around.
I have a vague feeling of unease, but I can't pinpoint it. It must
be the orange juice, I tell myself. What sense does it make to come
to "Dublin" on Friday night and drink orange juice? Then I realize
it: it's the music, that's it, the music! The speakers boom and crackle
with balkan rhythms, something beyond "ethno-pop," something issuing
so deep from the core of this place that it has escaped definition.
The people around us are singing, as loudly as they can, in a disharmonious
chorus, tear-wringing beautiful. I start to cry too, and we leave
"Dublin" without a clue as to why I'm crying: too much smoke, the
orange juice (I believe in the intoxicating force of fruit juice under
certain conditions), or, simply, from a feeling of solidarity. We
stroll leisurely over the streets of Bascarsjia, the old (still active)
bazaar. It is past midnight, it is cold, and raining. Everything seems
peaceful and calm. From somewhere, from the direction of some wooden
barracks, a strand of music reaches us. It is only a violin, a flute,
and a tambourine. I stand still, astonished: in front of a Bosnian
tavern, three young people, dressed in black, with green scarves around
their necks, are playing Irish music. Enchanted, I am ready to count
this among the inexplicable and beautiful incidents that give life
a sudden sense. Then I remember that Goran Bregovic, a Serb who writes
the music for the films of the Bosnian Emir Kusturica, has composed
also some marvelous Irish tunes. This is something else, something
in-between. And I swear to myself that, at the first opportunity,
I will find, behind the wooden doors in Bascarsjia, the tunnel that
connects Sarajevo to Dublin. |
|