Exquisite Corpse - Issue 4
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Sarajevo 2000
by Ioana Avadani, translated from the Romanian by Andrei Codrescu
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.


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