1.

It was March 13^th 1992 when the military summoner rang the doorbell of our house in Trogir. He interrupted my mother while she was drinking her Turkish coffee, and gave her a piece of paper with an official stamp. That is how the war started for me.

The timing of this event was awkward. I know that there is no convenient time when it comes to things like the draft, but in my case it really came at the worst possible moment. That morning when the summoner interrupted my mother’s cup of coffee, five weeks had passed since the opening of my store in Kaštela. It was a simple, small place where you could buy ice cream, newspapers or necessaries for the beach. Not long before that, I had also rented a bigger place nearer to the seashore. I was hoping to earn my first million by selling wall tiles. Packages of Italian tiles were already at customs when the little white paper was delivered to my house.

I remember that morning perfectly. I had been painting the walls of my new store, and I stopped when I heard the two o’clock radio news. I washed all the paintbrushes and went home for lunch. My mother held out that little piece of paper while opening the door for me, and I thought to myself: this is the worst possible time.

The seven-thirty news showed Šibenik on fire, artillery attacks force people from Zadar and Županja to move into shelters. It looked like war was going to break out in Bosnia, too. But I was not thinking of the Croatian tricolor, my debt to it, the smile of our beautiful homeland or its golden fields of wheat[1]. I was thinking about the rent of both my stores piling up, and the one closer to the shore was damn expensive. I was thinking about Željkica, the afternoon salesgirl in my smaller store, who was filching me, though I could not catch her red-handed. I thought about all those tiles being stuck right where they were, at customs. They had really drafted me at the worst possible time, and Trogir was different from the big cities; draft dodgers were talked about and pointed at.

The notification required me to report to the mobilization center on Sukošan Street in Split. No deadlines were specified, just an intimidating NOW, written in capital letters. I was not allowed to come with my own car. My mother phoned my uncle, explained everything and asked him to give me a lift.

In fifteen minutes, my uncle parked his stojadin in front of our house. In the meantime I packed a razor, toothbrush, jack knife, can opener and a bologna sandwich. I also took a sleeping bag, and placed everything in the trunk, which smelt of thinner and gas.

The building at Sukošan Street had a large driveway riddled with shrapnel. My uncle turned off the engine when we reached the entrance. He put his hand on my shoulder. I looked at him, then I looked at the gate, said goodbye and got out. I had to continue on my own because there was nothing he could do anymore. 

2.

The hallway was full of young, anxious machos. You could see right through them: urban guys in Diesel shirts, with earrings and dyed hair. They were still playing tough, but you could easily see how tormented they were. Just yesterday they had watched the news, swearing at those Serbian pieces of shit. Now it was different, they were involved.

“We could seriously use a truce now” – said a guy sitting next to me, while offering me an Orbit. I suppose you could have called him good-looking; he had a yellow, messy mane. I refused the gum. If I had put it in my mouth, I would have thrown up all over the garrison hall.

- I’m Edi – said the yellow guy, taking back the gum.

- Dino – I said, and shook his hand.

Some pen pusher collected our notifications and wrote our names down. They took us into a room resembling a classroom, only larger. After we waited for some time, and it seemed too long, an officer walked in and the commotion stopped.

He had a rank sign on his shoulder, a bunch of interlacing stars I could not decipher. He was stiff, in a perfectly new uniform that was hiding his round stomach. He greeted us. We stared at him in silence.

“Let’s get one thing straight” – he said. “This ain’t no military exercise. You’re not goin’ to a maneuver or the reserve forces. You’re going to war.”

When he said that, a sharp, cold pain pierced my guts. It felt like someone sticking a wire in my appendix.

“I know you wanna find out where you’re going. You’re going to the south, near Dubrovnik. The place is called Hutovo, and don’t look for it on the map ’cause you won’t find it. The buses are waiting outside to take you there. I have nothin’ more to say to you.”

He stood silent, and then added: “Good luck. Some of you won’t come back, but most will. Bear that in mind.”

I glanced at the crowded classroom. It was full of young men, and the officer scared the shit out of them. That fatso talked like we were competing for some great job, or trying to pass our SAT-s.

The buses were really waiting outside. There were a lot of uniforms around – drivers, officers and military police. An unshaven driver stood by a jeep, smoking. Edi stepped up to him and asked: “We’re going to a place called Hutovo. What’s it like, is it bad?” “Same shit” – said the driver, throwing the cigarette butt on the floor and stepping on it. “Everything is the same shit.”

We went into the buses and sat down. They were old and colorful; requisitioned from God knows which firm that had gone out of business. I sat there, staring at the back of Edi’s yellow head.

I remembered again what the fatso had said. Some of you won’t come back, but most will. Bear that in mind.

I was bearing that in mind non-stop. The only question, important and final was – when the line is drawn, which side would you be on. 

3.

We slept over in some village near the Neretva River, in a school situated on a curve and surrounded by silty water. Like that school, the whole village was a trapped backwater of swamps, moist and dirty. All around it shallow riverboats were rotting away. As the night grew closer, the water would reach the dark thickness of mazout oil and mosquitoes would rise from its surface in clouds.

They drove us into the village in pinzgauers[2], at sunset. The children gathered round us, amazed: we were neither civilians nor soldiers – soldiers without uniforms. The children smelt of silt. They seemed to be coated with a thin layer of dry, porous ocher mud. We saw the adults later; their skin looked like that, too – filthy and yellow.

We spent that night in our sleeping bags laid on the parquet classroom floor. I took a place underneath a map of Asia that was hanging on the wall, Edi settling right next to me. “Look what I got” – he said, taking a pack of cards for briscola and tresette[3] out of his bag. He outplayed me: in briscola he beat me four to zero.

Coldness woke me up before dawn. The classroom smelt of mould and burnt parquet. It was still dark outside. I was too frozen to get out of my sleeping bag so I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the snoring and breathing of thirty people. At four-forty I heard a car outside, then some voices. After that, everything was silent again.

But not for long. The classroom door opened and someone turned the light on. Some uniforms walked in. “Good morning” – said one of them, wearing a beard and round-rimmed glasses. He looked like a bookworm, a philosophy teacher.

Get up – said the philosophy teacher – you’ve got some white coffee and a breakfast waiting next door. Then we’ll give you the equipment.

Edi’s appetite was unbelievable. He gorged three chicken pâtés and a quarter of bread. I drank some white coffee (it was in fact ersatz with milk) and tried to chew on a piece of bread crust. When I left the building I was struck by the smell of silt, and I spat the bread right out. I went to get my equipment.

They gave us the uniforms, boots and belts. The clothes smelt like seat-covers and the boots like leather. Then they gave us the weapons.

When we entered the classroom, the automatics lay innocently on a table covered with baize. Each of us signed into the book and took a gun. When the ceremony was over, we stood there for a while like a bunch of stupid kids, handling our new toys with uneasiness. I remembered how we used to play war when we were little, hanging around the yard with big, knotty mulberry branches. People grow up and some things never change.

The philosopher got into the classroom, carrying a Kalashnikov himself. He said his name was Boris, Major Boris, and that he would be our commanding officer. “Is there anyone who can’t shoot from a ciganka[4]?” – he asked.

Everyone was silent. No one answered. Who wouldn’t know how to shoot from a Kalashnikov? This might not be a common skill in an average Swede or a German, but here – anyone can tell you how to take a Kalashnikov apart, charge it and shoot from it.

- Fine – said Major Boris, and walked out.

-

We went into the pinzgauers and took a lengthy ride. At first we drove on asphalt, and then the vehicle turned onto a dirt road. I looked at Edi: he winced too.

The asphalt was over. The normal, civilized world was over – we were there, the fucking middle of nowhere, Vietnam. 

4.

The sector we were in charge of resembled a pair of buttocks: two rotund, small hills separated by a creek. The road went through that creek, winding down the valley and disappearing somewhere on their side of the line.

We held our positions on one of the hillocks. The trenches were shallow, carelessly dug. Whether they were the work of our men or theirs, you could see that whoever was digging them did not think he would be here long. When you looked over the sandbag barriers the view was beautiful. The entire valley could be seen, the serpentine road to Dubrovnik; further away the peaks of Herzegovina were coated with snow. The Montenegrin ditches could also be seen, their tank entrenchment and camouflaged vehicles. We watched them, they watched us, but in most cases nothing happened.

We slept in an abandoned village, in huts scattered among fig and chestnut trees. It was twelve kilometers away from the high stands, which meant a two and a half-hour walk to the settlement. Major Boris told us that it was the only suitable place, considering the insecurity of the front and the wandering squads.

We settled there at dusk. Edi and I were sent to a hut formerly used for drying meat. It was built of concrete blocks, dirty with soot. Hooks, long ago used for hanging homemade sausages and prosciutto, now dangled empty from the wooden girders.

When we laid down our sleeping bags, the Major entered the hut. He sat on a chopping block and asked if everything was all right. He wrote our names down in a notebook, and asked us about our jobs as civilians.

- I’m an electrician in the post office – said Edi.

I stated my occupation, too; and asked: “What abut you?”

- I’m a professor – said the Major.

- Philosophy?

- No – he laughed. – Biology.

Then he stood up. “We’re neighbors. I sleep in the kitchen, right next to you.” 

5.

The walk to the high stands took three hours, and we took turns in 24-hour shifts. The soldier on duty would wake the team whose turn it was at four in the morning, so they could get ready and reach the stand before dawn.

It was a quiet period; the front would be stale and calm for a while. By the middle of the morning, the artillery would start shooting on both sides; tanks would leave their entrenchment and start fire – that was it, more or less. There were no infantry attacks, and we hadn’t seen the enemies for months. While the artillery was roaring, we would bury our heads in the shallow ditches and wait for it to stop. The high stand was bearable.

The day was not our problem, the night was. It would get dark early and you had to stay awake; the night before that, you had probably slept just a couple of hours. Until then, I was not aware of the pain brought by sleep deprivation: real pain, just like hunger or frostbite. It would make us see things that were not there: skeletons among the tree-tops, some branch looking like a hand with a grenade, mist taking the shape of human bodies. The less experienced would shoot the phantoms and throw bombs at the mist covering the hornbeam grove. The whole front would answer with a panicked thunder of weapons, just like one village dog waking all the others with his barking.

The road in the valley was not as rough and rocky as the one we first took when we came here. It was soft, covered with dust and easy to sneak onto. It was much easier than the rocky ground that snapped loudly as you walked on it. Professor Boris told us that this dusty road was the main reason we were here. “We mustn’t let them pass this spot. Cause if we do, they’ll get behind our backs and we’re fucked” – he said. If one of their squads got behind us, we would be done. That is why we had to watch the road.

The professor ordered a group of soldiers to dig a ditch near the road and place a counter-armor weapon in it. The guys dug it in the soothing shade of an oak tree. It faced a long curve of the dirt road. A rocket launcher was dragged in. “No more shifts for you” – said Major Boris to the rocketeer. “You’re going to be here 24-7.” The rocketeer did not object: it meant no walking, no high stand, no dishes and no camp guarding. He would sit under the oak tree for the rest of the day, wait for lunch and see that they didn’t come near. The major pointed his finger at Edi. “You’ll stay here with him, for security. Go and get your things.”

So Edi and the rocketeer were there permanently. At noon the food would arrive, and the Major would send someone to bring them a backpack with cans of food and some bread. Finally he decided it would be me.

I did not like the idea. It meant two walks a day, two walks during which I could be hit by a grenade or get caught in the middle of a mortar attack. I was spared the high stand shifts, though. I did not have to fear possible infantry attack, and I would sleep all night. But I walked the field each afternoon carrying the food, looking at the sharp-edged stones. If they start shooting, each of these rocks could be smashed into hundreds of flesh-severing limestone shrapnel, breaking vertebrae and limbs. I envied Edi: I would have traded places with him, and lay in the shadow waiting for the phantom tank that would never emerge behind that curve.

And so our days went by. In the morning, we could hear artillery fire. It was too far away to reach us, and it would cease towards the end of the morning. The lunch truck came exactly at noon. I would eat up quickly, pack the food and carry it to Edi and the rocketeer. I would pace hastily along the soft, warm dust. Months of war had chased away all the animals, so the valley was ghastly quiet. I listened to the silence, fearing only one sound: mortar fire.

The people around me were ordinary – you could see them every day on the bus or in the market, without noticing them or thinking about them. They were young and old, fat and slim, junkies and alcoholics, chicken-shits and heroes. The older ones were greedy-guts: as soon as the truck arrived, they would lurk for beans and sausages, or an extra candy bar. The younger ones would settle comfortably on the threshing-floor, take some weed out of a plastic bag and roll a joint, smoking and staring into the clear blue sky. Every single one of these people was ordinary. Except for professor Boris.

He was no regular guy, he was different: he rarely left the kitchen and never drank one drop of alcohol, always went to sleep as soon as it got dark. He would read some huge book while doing the night shift. The radio transceiver would crackle every once in a while, sparkling like some device from hell. Boris used it for reports every morning and every evening; he listened to it, read the big book and made notes. Once, when he was out, I used the opportunity and took a peak at it. It was about insects. Drawings of maybugs, cockroaches, stag beetles, fireflies and praying mantis covered the pages; and the margins were filled with professor’s tiny handwriting. I kept thumbing through. The next chapter was about ants. Each page showed a different kind of ant, dozens of various sizes, colors and patterns of behavior.

- They have wars too – I heard a voice behind my back. The professor had caught me snooping around.

- You’re free to look if you want to – he said while I put the book down timidly.

- People usually read novels.

- I’m writing an MA thesis. Actually, I was writing it.

- About bugs?

- Yes.

- About their wars?

- No, not that. Although it did cross my mind, especially since this started.

The light of the petroleum lamp was shivering, making it seem as if the room was moving. The radio continued to crackle and sparkle, reproducing fragments of orders and reports. We listened to scraps of conversations from other people in other places. From an opened page, an exotic, colorful maybug was staring at me. To someone else, we look like that – I thought. Colored, foreign, a bit repulsive. A simple race in a war with another race similar to it, for some reason only we can understand. An object worthy of studying, a species handled with tweezers while thin rubber gloves are cautiously protecting your hands. 

6.

A jeep arrived from the headquarters in the middle of morning. It was a brand new, shining Puch, obviously not ruined by dirt roads and rocky ground. It stopped in front of the post and an officer got out. The professor came up to him and saluted. Since I had been mobilized, that was the first time I saw someone saluting.

The driver opened the back door. The professor and the officer moved to make way, and then I saw the privileged passenger.

He was a kid.

Not really a kid, of course. But he looked like one: barely over eighteen, smooth-faced. He kept his shoulders bent, the obscenely huge uniform made him look ridiculous: it seemed he had stolen it from his dad. In spite of that, the senior officers stepped aside like he was an heir, a medium or a visionary chitchatting with the Holy Virgin Mary on a daily basis.

It was the Maluytka-guy.

The major had told us that he was going to come. “The road is not secured well enough. A rocket and two men are not enough.” – he had told us, adding that the headquarters had already approved his request for a Malyutka.

Anti-tank rockets were a common thing, they were used practically everywhere. The Malyutka was special: as peculiar as a rare insect, a precious sort of weapon – there were less than a dozen of them along the entire Dalmatian coast. Its purpose was similar to that of an anti-armor missile launcher: to destroy pillboxes, tanks, trucks and all mobile and immobile targets. What made it different was the three-mile coil of resistant steel wire around it. The wire was attached to the expensive projectile of devastating power. While it sped to the target, it was attached to the Malyutka and you could guide it: there were no shortfalls, overthrows nor miscalculations. You would look at your victim through the screen, drive the missile with something similar to a joystick – and hit it. The Malyutka was precise, exact, expensive and rare.

Everyone was talking about its price as the main problem. One missile cost a fuckin’ grand[5], you can’t just give someone fifty of ‘em before he gets a grip – they would say. So when the army needed Malyutka operators, they would take the ones who already knew it all – the kids. Video arcade champions, boys whose hands were used to operating a joystick were tested and recruited. They would give them two or three missiles each on the training area and that was it. The younger they were, the better: sharper eyesight and quicker reflexes. The ones who spent most time in front of their video games, killing aliens and destroying purple booby traps, were the right ones for the job.

The boy they had just drove in looked like one of them. See-through and pale, he looked like someone who had never seen any light, except neon. His thin arms gave the impression that he could not lift anything heavier than a beer. Then I looked at all the farmer-tanned dimwits hanging around the post. Their complexion was clearly the result of open air, homemade wine, weekend ranching and olive picking. The Malyutka-guy looked like an ant that had wandered into the wrong anthill.

- The kid kicks ass – said the professor that evening, while Turkish coffee was being made on the post. – One hundred percent efficiency in training. Hawk-eyed, his hand is one with the joystick. We’re lucky to have him.

While I was having coffee that night, I found out that they had given him the spot right next to me; it was Edi’s old place. When I went to sleep, he was still tossing and turning in his sleeping bag. I shook hands with him and said my name. “Toni, the Maluyutka-guy” – he said it as if the latter was his surname. 

7.

Edi and the Malyutka-guy became constant tenants of the trench under the oak tree. I brought their lunch every day. I would usually start the walk around noon, and get there before three. We would eat together, peas or meat sauce, and after that I would spend a part of the afternoon in the shade with them. Sometimes we could hear artillery thunder from the sea, and bursts of gunfire or shouting from the hill. The afternoons got shorter as time went by, and the battlefield was calm at night. I used to greet Toni and Edi at sundown, just before walking back to the village. I would listen to the sounds that surrounded me. Whenever I heard the hiss of a rocket launcher or the thudding of tanks, that old feeling of raw fear would grasp me for a moment – the same feeling that overflowed me that morning in the mobilization center, only to be washed away later by months of routine.

One morning I reached the oak, carrying minced-meat steaks, some vegetables and rice in my haversack. As I was putting the containers of food on the ground, I noticed a white, fleshy strip hanging from one of the branches. It was a snakeskin, carefully peeled off.

- Look – bragged Toni, the Maluyutka-guy. He was showing off like a five-year-old.

- I taught him how to catch snakes – said Edi.

- With a cleft stick – added Toni.

-

The valley was crowded with snakes and snake-lizards. All the other living creatures had already gone: the foxes, pheasants and hares were chased away by gunfire, and the birds flew away from the forest fires caused by missiles. Only the snakes were still there – mostly harmless grass snakes, rarely horned vipers. Bored soldiers would break away pieces of the dry stonewalls in the fields until they found one. Then the hunt would start. They would press its head down with a cleft stick, decapitate it with a pocketknife and skin it. I saw that sort of recreation back home and here, on the battlefield. Edi obviously had enough free time to acquire it.

I looked at Toni’s malicious device in the ditch. The Malyutka did not look like a weapon; it looked more like some wicked, expensive geodesic instrument. The sight of it made me respect the kid. He did not understand. He was too busy bragging about his new skill – snake hunting.

That afternoon I came back to the village earlier than usual. The Major looked at me and asked if the ambush by the road was all right. I nodded, remembering the white strip of skin swaying from a branch. Has it really come to this – sending the most infantile teenagers to war? 

8.

I would find Toni and Edi in the same position every afternoon: laid back sluggishly in the trench, their weapons and binoculars scattered around like dead cattle. You could hear gunfire and artillery from up the hill, but here nothing ever happened. Toni and Edi were lying, napping and farting; sometimes they would take a look at the road through their binoculars. I knew Edi well enough to see he was bored to death. But Toni had found entertainment for himself. He was crazed by the snakes.

The collection on the lowest oak branch grew daily. By the end of the week, there were about a dozen snakeskins up there, mostly grass snakes, some common adders and horned vipers. Some were long and light, some short, some black or stripy. From a distance, they looked like fish being dried by some weird Polynesian tribe, or like women’s socks on the washing line of some large household. In short, Toni was acting crazy: as soon as I would show up in the trench with the daily portion of beans or meat stew, he would show me the new acquisitions in his skin museum, all the reptiles he had executed with a cleft stick and a pocket knife. He sometimes wandered too far from the ditch in search of them, and Edi was reasonably disapproving of that.

In those couple of weeks, Toni’s appearance changed. The sun had darkened his complexion, and the skin on his palms and face got rough because of the fine, red dirt he was lying in. He began to follow the trend of Croatian warriors: a black bandana round his head, his ammo in the net pockets of his prsluk[6], his sleeves rolled up to show his unimpressive, white hands – like a violin player’s. Soon he began to decorate his uniform with snakeskins, hanging them around his neck and tacking them onto his belt. He was trying to look macho, and it made him ridiculous. Maybe that was why he hunted snakes, maybe he just wanted to leave his neon-lighted past behind and become an Indian, a tanned creature in touch with the nature around him. He might have wanted that, but I am not sure if it was working.

One day Major Boris came with me to supervise the outpost. While I was ladling spaghetti bolognese, he observed Toni’s collection with fascination. I watched him, unsure whether he was looking at it from the perspective of a biologist or a psychiatrist.

He did not comment on it. He scolded them for neglecting the trench, went past the curve checking the landmarks and went back. I followed, carrying a half-empty haversack of spaghetti. “An impressive collection” – he said right before we reached the village. “That kid caught a lot.” Then he added: “Be honest to me, has he – like – gone mental?” I said nothing.

It was thundering as hard as hell that night. As soon as it got dark in the village, the artillery fire started from the sea. It was roaring the entire night. Around three I got nervous, and got up. I could see the hilltops around us were the red of slowly burning, wet bushes. The front was alive, something was happening.

I lay down and went back to sleep. I dreamed of the Malyutka-guy, his belt supporter decorated with snakes – only in my dream they were alive. The oak was black, scorched and dreadful. I woke up early, with a headache. It was five in the morning, and the artillery fire had not ceased.

I walked through the village. Others were nervously pacing around too, listening to the drumming of the artillery and gaping at the leaden sky. Anxiety was choking me, so I forgot my dream of the snakes and the burned oak very quickly. Who could have known it was an omen of things about to happen that day, things after which nothing would stay the same? 

9.

Around noon, I took the lunch and headed off to the ambush. The fire had ceased by then. After an hour and a half I got to the ruined chapel, about two-thirds of my way. Up until then not a single grenade had fallen near, although artillery from the sea could constantly be heard.

I was barely a hundred yards from the chapel when it exploded.

It went off near me, although not near enough to present any danger to me. The bang was so loud I got dizzy, and the buzz in my ears was unstoppable. Immediately after that, another went off right across the road.

The worst thing about them was that they seemed to appear out of thin air. In war you can hear missiles all the time. They hiss left and right; their shrill noise rips the air. These did not hiss. They exploded as if they had been there forever, like someone had planted them and waited. Soon, the location of the third and the fourth detonation made it clear: they were aiming at the road.

I hid behind a steep rock and waited, all ears. The grenades hit the field randomly, raising smoke puffs. When one of them went off nearer to me, a shower of tiny limestone splinters would cover the rock I stood behind.

I did not know what to do. I could not go back to the village, not only because it was longer to it than to the trench, but also because the detonations were going off in that direction. The shelter I had found was less than lame: it protected me only when I was lying on my stomach. And if one hit the top of the cliffs next to me, which was likely, I would have been done for. I was choked by a panic attack, but I managed to put two and two together. I had to go further, to Edi and Toni’s trench.

The shit could have hit the fan in any case. But the fire was moving away toward the village, and the trench Toni and Edi were in was deep and solid, the only decent protected place in the entire fucking rock-covered valley. I only had to get there, to run the last two and a half miles.

So I started running. First I listened carefully to the discharge. I would run, throw myself on the ground when I heard it, and continue to run when the missile went off. I planned to get to the trench like that, but it was an illusion: the gunfire and the artillery were coming from both our side and theirs. Soon the explosions and detonations from both sides got so mixed up I could not count the missiles nor know who was shooting and from where. So I ran and threw myself down by chance, trying to get there as soon as I could.

After half an hour, I saw the silhouette of the hills and the creek that reminded me of a butt. I could even see the oak. What disturbed me were the sounds coming from above: gunfire, shouting, flashes and detonation. I had never before seen an infantry attack, but this sure looked like one.

I rushed toward the oak. The cold air was tearing my throat and my spleen was burning. The grenades were hitting the ground all around me, but I took no notice of them any longer. I decided to run those last hundred yards to the ambush without stopping. If it hit me, it would just mean that I was out of fucking luck.

I ran until the blurred image of the oak tree got close, and then stopped to see an unexpected scene.

Toni and Edi were not alone. Actually, there were so many men around the tree you would think they were waiting for a bus.

Edi and Toni were there, of course – in their uniforms, their guns ready to shoot.

The other men had camouflage uniforms too, only different: the yellow pattern was brighter, the material of lighter color, with different boots. Edi and Toni’s company was made up of soldiers from the other side, their soldiers.

After months spent in the war, I saw them up-close for the first time.

Luckily, it seemed like Edi and Toni had everything under control. They were pointing their guns at the disarmed intruders, who stood with their hands over their heads. Their guns and bombs were in a pile behind Edi’s back. Both of these crews stood upright in the middle of the skirmish, like there wasn’t artillery roaring around.

- Look what we caught – said Edi when he noticed me. He said it perkily, like he was enjoying himself.

-

- Their patrol – added the Malyutka-guy eagerly. He had his war colors on – snakeskins, net prsluk and a bandana. I had the impression that the Montenegrins were not sure whether to be afraid of him or consider him an utter nutcase.

-

There was three of them, the ideal number for surveying or a smaller sabotage. They seemed as scared as I would have been in their place. They looked hungry and run-down, too; but I suppose they thought the same of us.

One of them differed. He was tall, terribly thin, and you could tell by his long hair that he was a reservist. The other two watched him like he was their mentor or homeroom teacher. They looked down; he did not. He was looking straight at Edi, as if he considered him to be our boss. Finally he spoke.

- Friend! – He addressed Edi cautiously, like taming a wild animal.

We were stunned. Not one of us expected them to talk to us. When I come to think of it today, I think we were amazed by the fact they could speak.

- Friend, listen to me! – He repeated.

- I’m not your damn friend! – replied Edi crudely.

- Listen to me! It’s hell here, your people and my people are gonna get killed if

we stay like this. Let’s get down on the ground, and hide before we get hit.

Edi looked at me. I nodded my head so lightly it was barely noticeable. “Okay” – said Edi. “Get down on the ground, in front of the ditch! Hands behind your head! You move – you die.”

They did as he ordered them straight away, sagging slowly to the ground. They were frightened. Right after they did that, a grenade exploded near at hand. The three of us threw ourselves down, drawing our weapons. We could hear gunfire and shouting from up the hill. I looked up, but the only thing I saw was the thick oak branch with the snakeskins hanging from it. Toni’s snake lizards and grass snakes were swaying on the breeze, like they were trying to remind us that this mess stopped being their business a long time ago.

- What are you goin’ to do with them? – I asked Edi.

- Fuck, it would be best to kill the Chetnik scum.

-

As he said that, I looked at the men still lying there. They had not moved an inch. But Toni winced; I could see clearly his self-satisfied smile freezing.

- You won’t kill ‘em – I said. – We’ll wait for this to stop, and then we’re taking them to the village.

Edi seemed relieved when I said that. – True, we can use them for an exchange. – he murmured.

I took a look at the sky. We needed to wait for the artillery fire to cease, but it went on and on. The stony field blossomed in little clouds of gray smoke, a bang following each of them. It was thundering and the end did not seem to be near.

I looked at the Montenegrins. Their faces were gray and tired, their wrinkles filled with fine dirt. I thought that I could find out about them if I looked carefully enough, maybe find a hint that would reveal them as bakers, tire repair-men or teachers. But I found nothing. They all had similar faces, anxious and somber, looking like they had been in the army forever and always would be. I remember perfectly well how I wondered at that moment: do they see us in the same way, resembling each other like eggs, no past and no unique characteristics.

The radio transceiver was under the oak. It was buzzing. “Oak, Oak, this is House” – it was the voice of Major Boris. I was surprised by the way that patronizing tone comforted me.

- Oak, can you hear me? – crackled the radio again.

- We’re here – answered Edi. He was still watching the Montenegrins who were lying on the ground.

- An infantry attack started up there. Can you hear me? An infantry attack started.

- Roger that – said Edi. The gunfire from the hill was getting worse.

- We’re on the way, but it’s gonna take some time. We got two guys out already. You watch out, they’re gonna attack the road too.

- They already have.

- What?

- They already have. They sent raiders and we ambushed them. Three of them. They’re our captives now. What am I gonna do?

The radio was silent.

- What am I gonna do? – Edi repeated in a louder voice.

-

The radio was still silent.

- Wait for us to come – said the professor after a long break. Toni was nervously tapping the breech of his Kalashnikov. The Montenegrins were still, but you could see they were all ears. “He told us to wait” – said Edi, and as soon as he did everything melted away into light and earsplitting, unbearable detonation.

I never felt such pain in my entire life. I howled like a madman, and my right leg was burning from the knee down like someone was breaking it and skinning it with a metal comb at the same time. The only thing I could hear was the quiet, constant buzzing in my ears. I looked at my leg. It was still there. Bloody, according to the pain, probably pierced through – but still there. I was afraid that I would see only torn muscles and a stump. I could see my leg, and nothing was more important at that moment.

I turned around. The Montenegrins were still there, covering their heads with their hands. They seemed okay. Edi lay, his upper arm covered in blood.

I saw Toni. He was standing right under the tree, the most dangerous spot, completely intact as if he just came from somewhere else, still aiming at the Montenegrins.

When I remember that afternoon now, I usually get over-taken by fear again. The truth is that we were plain lucky that day. That 60-milimeter could have turned a yard or two aside and hit the treetop. It would have gone off somewhere among the branches above Toni’s snake gallery. In that case, the shrapnel would have fallen down on us like steel rain – and every one of us would be dead. Toni, who was standing right under the tree, against regulations, would have been turned into an amorphous bloody pulp.

But it hit the ground a bit further, shoved into the sand and lost its power. The Montenegrins were lying down so they got off easy. We were kneeling and aiming at them, so we got riddled by shrapnel and stone slivers – but we were alive. Edi’s shoulder was carved by a large knife-like piece of limestone. My leg was hurt. Toni was untouched.

He suddenly snapped out of it and hurried to help us; probably intending to bandage our wounds, stop the bleeding or something. Edi stopped him, mumbling a warning. “Are you fuckin’ crazy? Leave the two of us alone, watch them!”

We looked at the Montenegrins. Only a split second would be enough for them to get a hold of the weapons. Then we would become the prisoners, and they the jailers.

- Get on the radio. Ask for House – said Edi, barely speaking, and Toni grabbed the transceiver. Everything around us was echoing with the sound of explosions. Only crackling was heard, and then professor’s voice broke through.

- House, this is Toni, the Malyutka-guy.

-

The professor sounded surprised.

- Toni, where’s Edi?

- Down. Him and Dino.

-

The professor sounded like he had enough trouble already.

- What happened?

- It came down on us – said Toni, almost bursting into tears.

- Where are the captives?

Toni looked over his shoulder: “They’re here.”

For a moment or two, only buzzing and noise could be heard, and then detonations from the other side of the connection. Wherever the professor was, it was pretty bad.

- Toni! – Rustled the radio.

- I’m here.

- Go to the high stand as soon as you can! Can you hear me, leave as soon as…

- What about the captives?

The professor was silent. Edi and I looked at each other. Edi was lying on his hip with a bloody arm, and I was on my back. My leg was in a sloppy, improvised bandage. We were both aware of what was going on and how it would end. Toni was the only one who still didn’t get it.

- Toni – said Edi, hardly breathing because of the pain – Toni, we gotta get up there. Our men are up there. The medic is up there.

- What about them? – Toni was pointing at the poor bastards lying there and listening.

- Toni, you can’t take ‘em up there during the attack. It would be bringing the enemy behind our men’s back.

- I’m taking them to the village, for exchange.

- You can’t get to the village. There is no village. No one is there anymore.

- I can’t just let them…

- Right. You can’t. They’ll surprise our guys from behind.

- Then what am I gonna do – kill them?

-

Edi said nothing. I looked at the Montenegrins and realized they had given up all hope. Toni was still the only one not getting it.

- I can’t do it to them, no.

- My arm is crushed and Dino can’t get up.

- I can’t do it.

- Toni, there’s no other choice – Edi answered patiently, like lecturing an idiot.

Toni looked at me. I was silent very briefly, and then nodded. I still swear it was the hardest single sentence I had ever uttered. “There’s no other choice” – I said, looking at the Montenegrins.

The tall one stood up looking at the ground, dignified and rigid. The shortest one’s jaw started shaking before he burst to tears. His fear gave him color, in my head. I looked at his light hair and thought to myself: back where he came from, he might be a teacher, a jurist or an accountant. He did not look like someone who had a family, but you could not tell that for sure. If he had, he would never see them again.

- I can’t kill them. Not like this – Toni was sobbing seriously, almost beginning to cry. – They have no weapons, nothing.

- Are you insane? What the fuck do you want? You want us to give them their weapons back? What do you think this is, a duel, the OK Corral? – Edi was outraged, and it did not seem fair to me. Toni had a healthy hand and had to do it. It was hard enough already; there was no need to make it worse.

We stood like that, and all around us was gunfire and chaos. The shorter Montenegrin was sobbing. The tall one was staring at the ground as if trying to figure out some last, insoluble riddle hidden in the grass before he died. Toni was gasping with horror; his gun aimed at them, his eyes staring at us. Edi’s bleeding was getting stronger. We had to hurry and end this.

- House, House, this is Oak – yelled Toni into the transceiver, like it could make a difference. – Roger – The professor’s voice encouraged Toni, who still had his hopes up.

- House, I’m takin’ the wounded and the captives to you.

- Toni, go up to the high post.

-

Toni did not answer at once. The professor called out in a worried, impatient voice.

- House, what will I do with the captives? – Toni asked for the last time.

- You know what – said the professor.

- What?

- You know what, Toni.

-

Toni put aside the transceiver. He was pallid.

I took a look at the Montenegrins. They were definitely convicted. The professor had condemned them although, like everyone else, he never used the “K” word. No one wanted to mention what was about to happen in its true name.

I closed my eyes and heard the unnaturally long sound of Toni’s automatic; then silence.

When I opened my eyes the Montenegrins were dead, Toni’s Kalashnikov was on the ground and he stood petrified under the oak. He could not look away from what he had done.

The three lay dead, expressionless, like they were taking a break from a job they would finish later.

I regretted looking at them. If I hadn’t done that, I would not dream of them now. And I do – not every night, but often. I dream of the three dead bodies watching the sky. I dream their eyes looking, but unable to see. They cannot see the clouds, the branches or the dead snakes carelessly swaying back and forth in the afternoon wind.

- Let’s go – said Edi. – Let’s go before another one goes off.

-

Edi was the most self-possessed of us all, or maybe the worst person. We did as he told us to. We were alive, and those who are will do anything to keep on living. 

10.

I never went back to the oak on the turn of the road. Toni went there one more time, the morning after what had happened, to get the Malyutka. He told me that the bodies of the Montenegrins were still there. One of our men poured quick lime on them so they would not smell. So the quick lime smelled instead, which was almost as bad.

That October morning, as they said on the radio, we rejected the enemy’s infantry attack along the entire combat line. Two days later, our men counterattacked the Montenegrins and forced them to draw seven miles back. The trench under the oak became obsolete. It just stayed there as a reminder of a stupid war that took place a long time ago. Maybe it is still there, filled with leaves, getting shallower because dirt is constantly filling it. I doubt that anyone covered over it: scars on people barely have time to heal here, so who would want to heal scars on the earth.

If the ditch is still there maybe the snakeskins of the Malyutka-guy are, too. When I asked him about them, he told me that he had just left them there. They could still be swaying on the north and south wind, now black and dry. Toni no longer needed them; he had become the hardened being of nature, and the Indian he wanted to be.

It would be better if he hadn’t. It would be better for him to push the rewind button and go back to the morning he stepped out of the jeep, pale and slouching, with his hands resembling a violinist’s. But you cannot rewind life and Toni can never stop being a killer, just as I can never stop being an accomplice.

Two days after the incident under the oak tree, our soldiers counterattacked and made the Montenegrins draw seven miles back. They call it history. We were no longer a part of that history. We were not there – nor Toni, nor Edi, nor the professor, nor I.

I spent those two days at the medical corps, where some pre-med took care of my leg. I could move, so they sent me to Split with the rest of our shift. I limped over to the bus and took a seat by the window. Through the dirty glass, I could see Toni returning the Malyutka. He got on the bus, saw me and greeted me with a melancholic nod. But he did not sit next to me.

We traveled for a long time. Before sunset, the bus hit the asphalt – it was the same spot at which we had said goodbye to our regular life. The German machine was purring pleasantly and quietly, but it no longer meant anything.

Late at night we went over the mountain and hit the bypass. The view of Split and the bay opened in front of us. From above Split looked like a metropolis. Blast furnaces were burning, the spotlights of disco-clubs, the airport, construction sites, the stadium. A wobbly cluster of a thousand lights burning together made the city surreal, like some futuristic habitat from Star Wars. The bus was sliding downwards, to the sea, to the epicenter of light.

Down there, people were eating, reading newspapers, sleeping, fucking, watching movies, drinking cappuccino or wasting time among the medieval alleys. Down there was the parallel floating of anonymous lives, including my folks, neighbors and acquaintances. Down there nothing big or important had happened: people will read newspapers tomorrow, too; Željkica will filch me, my old lady will solve crossword puzzles while the coffee grounds are slowly clotting in her cup. To them nothing had changed; only for us it had.

I glanced at the professor. He was sitting in the front, his eyes closed like he was meditating or praying. Maybe he was asleep or writing his MA thesis in his mind, thinking about the thoraxes and antennas of coleopters and maybugs; all the species mating, growing and leading wars, guided by the plan and reason they do not understand nor question. Perhaps he was thinking about the three bodies covered in quick lime – although I doubt it.

Toni was thinking about them. He was sitting at the front of the bus, at a safe distance from me, his accomplice. He was staring at the darkness of the Dalmatian autumn. I was positive that, through the dark, he could still see those lifeless eyes gazing at the sky.

I knew what was going to happen when we reached that light down there. The buses would leave us at the dockyard parking. Now let loose, the soldiers would crawl all around the city in their dirty uniforms. The alcohol deficit in their blood would soon be recuperated in bars, with shots of Stock or grappa with herbs. They would drag themselves, smashed, to the nearest peep show. Then they would lustfully watch the plump stripper from the safety of their cabin. That was the purpose of war for middle-aged men – the last breeze of adventure, a respite, a break from their fat wives and daily routine. War was good for that, even better than evening classes, chorus singing or fights with soccer fans of the opposition.

The problem with Toni was that he was not middle-aged, he did not have a fat wife and a bunch of kids, and he had never spent the New Year’s Eve with his family, built a weekend cottage or barbecued a pork roast. When we hit the light hatch, instead of going to a peep show Toni would go to his teenage room with posters over his bed.

I was not comfortable thinking about him. I closed my eyes, trying to think of soccer, sex or fried fish. But the eye-trick was no good. As soon as I closed my eyelids, I would see the thing I was running away from: bodies covered in quick lime and black snakeskins swaying back and forth under the gray sky.

What I saw, Toni saw too. That was what made us unique, lonely specimens in this bus – a bus full of ordinary people rushing to their ordinary homes, their sanctuaries and their happiness.

[1] An ironic reference to a popular patriotic song, performed at a large Croatian Band-Aid in the early nineties.

[2] A powerful armored car with four-wheel drive, used mainly for military purposes.

[3] Common card games played especially by people who live in Dalmatia.

[4] Ciganka literally means “Gypsy woman” in Croatian. It was a common nickname soldiers used for an AK-47.

[5] That is, a thousand ex-Deutsch Marks.

[6] Ammo jacket.

1.

Trinaestog ožujka devetsto devedeset i druge vojni je pozivar zazvonio na vrata naše kuće u Trogiru. Moju je majku zatekao u pola turske kave. Otvorila mu je, a on joj je predao bijeli papirić sa žigom. Tako je za mene počeo domovinski rat.

Dogodilo se to baš u nezgodno vrijeme. Znam da za stvari kao što je mobilizacija vrijeme nikad nije bezuvjetno zgodno, ali u mom slučaju poziv je stigao baš u naopaki čas. Jer, tog jutra kad je pozivar prekinuo jutarnju kavu moje majke, punilo se pet tjedana otkad sam u Kaštelima otvorio trafiku, jednostavan dućan gdje si mogao kupiti sladoled, novine i potrepštine za plažu. Nedugo prije unajmio sam i veći poslovni prostor, niže uz lungomare. Nadao sam se njime zaraditi svoj prvi milijun prodajući keramičke pločice. Paketi s talijanskim pločicama već su čekali na carini kad je papirić stigao na vrata.

Odlično pamtim to jutro. Od osam ujutro jupolom i valjkom sam farbao zidove novog lokala. Bojanje sam prekinuo kad su na radiju počele vijesti u dva. Oprao sam pinele i valjak, i otišao kući na ručak. Majka mi je s vrata pokazala papirić, a ja sam istom pomislio: stigao je baš u najgore vrijeme.

Na vijestima u tri pokazali su Šibenik kako gori, javili kako su topničke uzbune u skloništa potjerale Zadar i Županju. Izgledalo je da se rat sprema i u Bosni. Ali, ja nisam mislio na dug domovini, trobojnicu, lijepu našu i njen osmijeh zlatnog žita. Mislio sam na to kako će mi sve vrijeme teći najam na oba prostora, a onaj niže uz lungomare bio je vražje skup. Mislio sam kako me Željkica, koja popodne radi u trafici, potkrada, a ne mogu je uloviti. Mislio sam kako će pločice ostati gdje jesu, na carini. Poziv se dogodio baš u najgore vrijeme, a u nas to nije bilo kao u velikom gradu: ako ovdje dobiješ poziv a ne odeš, to se sazna, ljudi komentiraju i pokazuju na te prstom.

Na pozivu je pisalo da se javim u mobilizacijski centar, u Sukošansku ulici u Splitu. Nisu pisali nikakvi rokovi – samo jedno krupno, prijeteće ODMAH. Pisalo je da ne dolazim svojim autom. Majka je nazvala strica, objasnila mu što se dogodilo i zamolila ga da me prebaci do Splita.

Za četvrt sata stric se stojadinom dovezao pred kuću. Ja sam se u međuvremenu spakirao. Utrpao sam u torbu brijač, četkicu za zube, nož skakavac, otvarač za konzerve i sendvič s mortadelom. U drugu sam ruku uzeo vreću za spavanje i sve to utrpao u gepek stojadina. Gepek je vonjao po razrjeđivaču i nafti.

Zgrada u Sukošanskoj imala je veliki kolni ulaz prošaran rupama od gelera. Stric je pred ulazom ugasio motor. Položio mi je ruku na rame. Pogledao sam njega, pa kolna vrata, a onda ga pozdravio i izišao. Dalje sam morao sam, tu za strica više nije bilo posla.  

2.

Hodnik garnizona bio je pun mladih, uznemirenih mužjaka. Odmah si ih kužio: sve urbani dečki, s naušnicama, farbanom kosom i diesel majicama. I dalje su glumili velike frajere, ali si vidio da su nemirni poput duša na muci. Još su jučer gledali TV dnevnik i jebavali im tamo prijeko mater srpsku. Sad je sve bilo drukčije, sad se sve to ticalo njih.

«Je bi sad dobro palo jedno primirje» reče tip koji je sjedio do mene, i ponudi mi orbit gumu. Bio je ljepuškast, imao je na glavi žutu, čupavu grivu. Odbio sam gumu: da sam je stavio u usta, mislim da bih se istog časa ispovraćao po garnizonskom podu.

-Ja sam Edi – rekao je žuti, i povukao gumu.
-Dino – rekao sam, i pružio ruku.

Ćato nam je pokupio pozive i upisao nas u knjigu. Uveli su nas u prostoriju koja je izgledala kao školski razred, ali je bila veća. Nakon čekanja koje mi se činilo predugim na vrata je ušao časnik, a žamor se utišao.

Časnik je na ramenu nosio oznaku čina – pregršt pleternih zvjezdica - koju nisam umio dešifrirati. Bio je utegnut u perfektno novu uniformu koja je sakrivala poveći trbuh. Pozdravio nas je. Piljili smo u njega u potpunoj tišini.

«Da se oko jedne stvari odma razumimo», rekao je.  «Ovo nije vojna vježba. Ne idete na manevre, niti u rezervu. Idete u rat.»

Rekao je to, a mene je u želucu probo ledeni bol, baš kao da mi netko kroz slijepo crijevo uvlači žicu.

«Znam da vas zanima di idete», rekao je. «Idete doli na jug, blizu Dubrovnika. Misto se zove Hutovo, i nemojte ga tražit na karti jer ga nećete nać. Pred zgradon su autobusi, oni će vas odvest. Nemam vam šta drugo reć.»
Zašutio je, a onda dodao: «I sretno. Neki se od vas neće vratit, ali većina oće. Imajte to na pameti.»

Pogledao sam pretrpan razred. Bio je pun mladih muškaraca, usranih kao grlice. Onako kako je to debeli izložio, zvučalo je kao da smo jedan drugom konkurenti za neki posao ili fakultetski upis.

Autobusi su zbilja bili pred zgradom. Uokolo se vrzmalo dosta uniformiranog svijeta – vozača, časnika i vojnih policajaca. Jedan neobrijani vozač stajao je pokraj džipa i pušio. Edi mu pristupi. «Idemo u neko Hutovo. Kakav je to teren? Je li gadno?», upita žuti.
Neobrijani je nogom smrvio opušak. «Sve ti je to isti kurac», rekao je, «sve isti kurac.»

Sjeli smo u buseve. Bili su stari i šareni, rekvirirani od tko zna kojeg propalog poduzeća. Sjedio sam i gledao Edijev žuti potiljak.

Opet sam se sjetio što je debeli kazao. Neki se od nas neće vratiti, većina hoće. Imajte to na pameti.

Imao sam to na pameti, cijelo vrijeme. Jedino, važno i posljednje pitanje - s koje ćeš strane biti kad se povuče crta.   

3.

Prespavali smo u nekom selu uz Neretvu. Spavali smo u školi, obgrljenoj muljevitom vodom, na okuci rijeke. Baš kao i škola, tako je i cijelo selo bilo zarobljeno riječnim rukavcima i barama, vlažno i nečisto. Uokolo su trulili plitki riječni čamci, komarci su se s večera dizali u rojevima, a voda bi postala gusta i tamna kao mazut.

U selo su nas dovezli pinzgauerima, u sumrak. Djeca su se okupila oko nas i gledala nas začuđeno: ni vojnike, ni civile – vojnike, a bez uniformi. Djeca su vonjala na mulj. Činilo se kao da su presvučena poroznim slojem sasušenog, žućkastog blata. Poslije smo vidjeli odrasle. Koža im je bila ista takva, nečisto žuta od nataložene zemlje.

Spavali smo po učionicama, u vrećama položenim na parket. Zauzeo sam mjesto ispod zemljovida Azije i rastvorio vreću. Edi se smjestio uz mene. «Vidi šta imam», rekao je, i iz torbe izvukao karte za briškulu i trešetu. Igrao je bolje: u briškuli me tukao četiri nula, a ja sam dvaput previdio karika.

Pred zoru me je probudila hladnoća. Učionica je mirisala na plijesan i nagoreni parket. Vani je još bilo mračno. Kako je bilo studeno, nije mi se izlazilo iz vreće. Piljio sam u strop učionice i slušao kako trideset ljudi diše, hrče i pišti. U četiri i četrdeset izvana se začuo zvuk automobila, a potom glasovi. Onda se sve nanovo primirilo.

Ne zadugo. Vrata učionice su se otvorila, a netko je upalio svjetlo. Na vrata su ušli uniformirani ljudi. «Dobro jutro», rekao je jedan od njih i ukoračio u sobu. Nosio je bradu i okrugle naočale. Doimao se kao knjiški moljac, profesor filozofije.

-Ustanite – rekao je profesor filozofije – u drugoj sobi imate bile kafe i doručak. A onda ćemo razdilit opremu.

Nevjerojatno je kakav je apetit Edi imao. Smazao je tri kokošje paštete i četvrt kruha. Ja sam otpio malo bijele kave (koja je u stvari bila cikorija s mlijekom) i pokušao sažvakati koru kruha. Kad sam izišao iz zgrade, zapahnuo me miris mulja. Pljunuo sam koru iz usta i pošao po opremu.

Podijelili su nam uniforme, remenje i čizme. Odjeća je mirisala poput automobilskih presvlaka, a čizme po koži. Potom su nam dali oružje.

Podijelili su nam ga u učionici. Automatske puške nevino su ležale na stolu prekrivenom čojom. Upisali bismo se u knjigu, i uzeli pušku. Kad je obred bio gotov stajali smo neko vrijeme kao krdo klipana, s nelagodom premećući po rukama nove igračke. Sjetio sam se kako bismo se kao djeca igrali rata, klatareći se uokolo po dvorištu s velikim, kvrgavim štapovima od lovorovih ili murvinih grana. Ljudi odrastu, ali neke stvari se ne mijenjaju.

Na vrata učionice ušao je filozof, noseći i sam kalašnjikov u ruci. Predstavio se. Rekao je da se zove Boris, bojnik Boris, i da nam je odsad nadalje zapovjednik. “Ima li iko da ne zna pucat iz ciganke?” pitao je.

Svi su šutjeli. Nitko se nije javio. Tko ne bi znao pucati iz kalašnjikova? To su stvari koje Švabo ili Šved možda ne zna, ali ovdje svatko to zna, svatko ti može pokazati kako se kalašnjikov rasklopi, kako puni, a kako se iz njega puca.

«Dobro», rekao je bojnik Boris, i izišao.

Ukrcali su nas u pinzgauere. Vožnja je trajala dugo. Isprva smo se vozili asfaltom, a onda je kamion skrenuo između dvije škrape na makadam. Pogledao sam Edija: i on se lecnuo.

S asfaltom je bilo gotovo. Gotovo je bilo s normalnim, civilnim svijetom - došli smo tamo, u pičku materinu, u Vijetnam. 

4.

Sektor koji smo pokrivali nalikovao je stražnjici. Sastojao se od dva obla, runjava brijega razdvojena prosjekom kroz koji se vukla cesta. Vijugala je dolinom, penjala se u klanac između dva brijega i zamicala prijeko, prema neprijateljskoj strani.

Položaje smo držali na brijegu. Bili su to plitki, nemarno iskopani rovovi, djelo naše ili njihovo, ali očito nekog tko je vjerovao da se tu neće dugo zadržati. Preko grudobrana od vreća s pijeskom pružao se lijep pogled. Mogao si vidjeti cijelu dolinu, cestu koja vijuga prema Dubrovniku, a dalje u dubini hercegovačke gore zapahnute snijegom. Mogao si isto tako vidjeti crnogorske rovove, tenkovske ukope i maskirana vozila. Gledali smo ih, gledali su oni nas, ali se uglavnom nije događalo ništa.

Spavali smo u napuštenom selu, u pojatama raspršenim među smokvama i bajamima. Selo je bilo dvanaest kilometara od čuka, što je značilo da je do položaja trebalo pješačiti dva i pol sata. Bojnik Boris je rekao da se drukčije ne možemo smjestiti, jer dalje nema sela, a i ima zalutalih patrola.

Smjestili smo se u sumrak. Edija i mene poslali su u bivši komin. Bila je to pojata od bloketa, iznutra crna od dima. S greda su visjele kuke na koje je netko nekoć vješao pršute i kobasice. Sad su ostale samo kuke.
Kad smo prostrli vreće, u pojatu je ušao bojnik. Sjeo je na panj i upitao nas je li sve u redu. Upisao nam je imena u bilježnicu, a onda pitao što radimo kao civili.

-Ja sam električar. U pošti – odgovorio je Edi.
I ja sam kazao što radim. –A vi? – pitao sam potom.
-Ja sam profesor – odgovorio je bojnik.
-Filozofije? – pitao sam.
-Ne – nasmijao se – biologije.
Potom je ustao. «Susjedi smo», rekao je. «Ja spavam u kužini, odma do vas.» 

5.

S obzirom da se do čuke pješačilo tri sata, službujući bi svakog dana budio smjenu u četiri ujutro. Odjenuli bi se i opremili, i na čuku stigli pred zoru. Smjena bi trajala 24 sata.
Bilo je to mirno razdoblje. Front se na neko vrijeme umrtvio i ustalio. Polovinom jutra topništvo bi s proradilo, a s vremena na vrijeme tenkovi bi se pomakli iz ukopa i zasuli drugu stranu doline. Pješačkih napada, međutim, nije bilo. Neprijatelja nismo vidjeli tjednima. Dok bi artiljerija tukla, mi bismo zaronili glave u plitke rovove i čekali da rokanje završi.

Nije bio problem dan, nego noć. Mrak bi rano pao, cijelu noć nisi smio zaspati, a za tobom je već bila prethodna noć manjkavog sna prekinutog prije zore. Nisam prije toga znao da neispavanost može boljeti, baš kao glad ili ozeblina. Od neispavanosti bismo imali priviđenja. Vidio bi kosture kako se klate u granama, od grane graba mislio bi da je ruka s ručnom bombom, a od sumaglice da su ljudska tijela. Neiskusniji bi pucali na prikaze, bacali bi bombe na sumaglicu i grabov lug, a čitav bi front na to odgovorio paničnom rafalnom paljbom, baš onako kako jedan seoski pas lavežom probudi ostale.

Put koji se vukao dolinom nije bio iskrčen, kvrgav, poput onog koji nas je doveo ovamo. Bio je to dobar put, nježno prašnjav i ravan. A mekom prašinom se lako šulja, lakše nego po kamenjaru koji se pod nogama lomi i praska. Profesor Boris nam je rekao da je taj put glavni razlog zašto smo ovdje. «Tu ne smiju proć», rekao je. «Da nam se ophodnja cestom uvali za leđa, dobili bismo u jaketu, svi skupa.» Zato je cestu trebalo paziti.

Boris je stoga naložio da se uz cestu iskopa rov i postavi protuoklopno sredstvo. Dečki su rov iskopali ispod jednog hrasta koji je pružao fini hlad. Rov je gledao na dugi makadamski zavoj. Bojnik je naložio da se u rov doveze raketni bacač. «Tebi nema više smjene», rekao je poslužitelju bacača, «bit ćeš tu 24 sata.» Raketaš se nije bunio: tako nije morao pješačiti, držati čuku, prati posuđe i čuvati logor. Sjedit će pod hrastom po cio dan, čekati ručak i paziti da oni ne dođu cestom. Bojnik je pokazao prstom na Edija. «Ti ćeš ostat sa njim, ka osiguranje. Idi po stvari.»
Tako su se Edi i raketaš trajno utaborili na cesti. U dvanaest, kad bi stigla hrana, bojnik bi poslao nekog da im odnese manjerku, konzerve i kruh. Naposljetku je odlučio da ću to raditi ja.

To mi nije bilo po volji. To je značilo dva đira dnevno po vrućini, dva đira tijekom kojih te može poklopiti granata ili zateći minobacački napad. Istina je da sam bio pošteđen smjena na čuki. Nisam više trebao strepiti od pješačkog napada. Noć bih spavao u komadu. Ali, hodao sam poljem svakog popodneva noseći manjerku, i promatrao nazubljeni krš. Počnu li rokati, svaka te od tih grota može ubiti, svaka se rasprskava u stotine vapnenačkih gelera koji kidaju tetive, lome pršljene i udove. Zavidio sam Ediju: volio bih da sam na njegovom mjestu, u debeloj hrastovoj sjeni, i da čekam fantomski tenk koji se neće pomoliti iza zavoja.

Tako su prolazili dani. Ujutro bismo s prve linije čuli kako grmi topništvo, ali je selo bilo predaleko da bi nas poklopili. Potkraj jutra tutnjava bi se umirila. Točno u dvanaest stigao bi kamionet s ručkom. Ja bih brzo pojeo, natovario malu manjerku na leđa i ponio ručak Ediju i raketašu. Brzo bih hodao po toploj i mekoj prašini, osluškujući. Mjeseci rata otjerali su ptice i životinje, pa je dolina bila jezovito tiha. Osluškivao sam tu tišinu strepeći samo od jednog zvuka: tutnjave minobacača, ili vebeera.

Ljudi oko mene bili su običan svijet, svijet kakvim si okružen svaki dan – u autobusu, pred šalterom, na ribarnici. Bilo ih je mladih i starih, trbušastih i vitkih, narkomana i alkosa, kukavica i hrabrih. Stariji su bili izjelice: čim bi stigao kamionet uzvrtjeli bi se oko manjerki, vrebajući kobasice i grah, ili čokoladicu više. Mlađi bi se zavalili na gumno, izvadili iz kesice travu i zamotali đoju, pušeći i piljeći u jasno seosko nebo. Svi su odreda bili strašno obični – svi osim profesora, osim Borisa.

On nije bio običan, bio je drukčiji. Rijetko je izlazio iz svoje kuhinje, lijegao je s mrakom i nikad nije pio. Smjenu noćne službe odradio bi čitajući stalno istu debelu knjižurinu. Na stolu dežurnog tu bi se i tamo uz krčanje oglasio radio, svjetlucajući kao neka đavolska naprava. Boris bi njime uvečer i ujutro predavao raport, osluškivao ga, čitao debelu knjigu i bilježio nešto u nju. Jednom sam se zavukao u kuhinju dok ga nije bilo i zavirio u svezak. Knjiga je bila o kukcima. Na stranicama su bili crteži hrušteva, žohara, jelenaka, krijesnica i bogomoljki, a na marginama profesorove sitno ispisane bilješke. Listao sam dalje. Naredno poglavlje bilo je posvećeno mravima. Na svakoj je stranici bio nacrtan mrav drukčije vrste, i tako deseci njih, deseci rasa različitih boja, veličina i običaja.

-I oni ratuju – začuo sam iza leđa. Profesor me ulovio u špijuniranju.

-Pogledaj slobodno, ako te zanima – rekao je, kad sam plaho ispustio knjigu.
-Ljudi obično čitaju romane.
-Pišem magisterij. Zapravo, pisao sam ga.
-O kukcima?
-Da.
-O tome kako ratuju?
-Ne, ne baš o tome. Iako mi je i to padalo napamet, otkako je sve počelo.

Svjetlo petrolejke je tinjalo, tako da se činilo da se soba ljulja. Radio je svjetlucao i krčao, reproducirajući ulomke naredbi i izvještaja. Slušali smo otpatke razgovora iz drugih zakutaka bojišnice, razgovora nekih drugih ljudi na nekom drugom mjestu. Položio sam knjigu na stol. S otvorene stranice gledao me je neki egzotični, šareni hrušt. Nekome i mi tako izgledamo, pomislio sam. Šareno, tuđe, pomalo gadljivo. Kao neka jednostavna rasa  koje ratuje s drugom sličnom sebi zbog nekih svojih razloga. Kao predmet dostojan proučavanja, vrsta koju dodiruješ pincetom, a na ruku si pomno navukao laboratorijske rukavice. 

6.

Sredinom jutra iz stožera je stigao najavljeni džip. Bio je to novi, ulašteni Puch, vozilo na kojem se vidjelo da nije izraubano po ovdašnjim grabama. Džip se zaustavio ispred dežurane, iz auta je izišao časnik, a profesor mu je prišao ususret i salutirao. Bio je to prvi put da sam ikog u ovom ratu vidio da salutira.

Vozač je otvorio stražnja vrata. Profesor i časnik su se razmakli da osobi iz auta puste prolaz. U tom sam trenu ugledao povlaštenog putnika.
Bio je dijete.

Ne zaista dijete, naravno. Ali, izgledao je kao dijete: vrlo mlad, jedva preko osamnaest, i golobrad. Držao se povijeno, prevelika odora pristajala mu je komično. Činilo se da je pokrao garderobu vlastita oca. Ipak, stariji, iskusni časnici sklanjali su se pred njim kao da je prijestolonasljednik, ili medij, ili vidilac koji čavrlja s Gospom.
Bio je to maljutkaš.

Bojnik nam je najavio njegov dolazak. «Slabo držimo cestu», rekao je jednog jutra, «raketa i dva čovjeka nisu dovoljna». Kazao je kako je od zapovjedništva tražio maljutku, i dobio je.

Protutenkovska raketa bila je obična stvar, bilo ih je posvuda. Maljutka je bila nešto drugo: stvar rijetka kao rijetki kukac, dragocjena cijev kakvih je od mora pa do vrha Neretve bilo ne više od desetak. Služila je uništavanju bunkera, tenkova i vozila. Ono što ju je činilo drukčijom od raketnih bacača bio je namot od dva kilometra čvrste čelične žice. Na taj je namot bio nataknut projektil, razoran, podmukao i skup. Cijelim putem k cilju projektil je žicom bio vezan za oružje. Zahvaljujući tome, mogli ste ga navoditi: nije kod maljutke bilo podbačaja i prebačaja, zanošenja i lošeg računanja. Vlastitu biste žrtvu gledali fino u ekran ciljnika, raketu vozili palicom nalik onoj za računarske igrice, i na koncu doveli na cilj. Maljutka je bila perfektna, rijetka i skupa.

To sa skupoćom, to je bio problem, govorili su. Košta raketa soma maraka, kurac, nemo’š nekom dat da ih ispuca pedeset da se nauči. Zato je vojska za maljutkaše uzimala one već naučene – klince. Uzimala je šampione iz luna parkova, momčiće koji su omekšali ruku satima igrajući igrice. Uzimala je dječurliju sraslu uz joystick, testirala ih i novačila za maljutkaše. Dali bi im da ispucaju na poligonu dva-tri i -gotova obuka, to je bilo to. Što su bili mlađi, bolje: oštrije vide, brži su im refleksi. Što su više visjeli pred konzolama, smicali ljubičaste mine, rafalnom paljbom tamanili svemirce, bili su za ovaj posao bolji.

A ovaj je izgledao kao jedan od takvih. Proziran kao čovječja ribica, doimao se kao netko tko se od svjetla nagledao jedino neonskog, tko u životu nije podigao ništa teže od pive. Pogledao sam dangube koji su se klatarili oko dežurane: bili su svi rumeni od seoskog zraka, od branja maslina, okopavanja krumpira i od domaćeg vina. Maljutkaš je izgledao kao da su ga poslali u krivi termitnjak, među drugu vrstu mrava.

-Mali je najbolji – rekao je profesor dok se navečer u dežurani kuhala turska kava. – Sto posto učinak, na obuci. Ima oko ka sokol, lipi mu se ruka na đojstik. Sretni smo šta smo ga dobili.

Navečer uz kavu saznao sam da su ga smjestili kod mene, na Edijevo mjesto. Kad sam pošao na spavanje, još uvijek se vrtio po vreći. Pružio sam mu ruku i predstavio se.

- Toni, maljutkaš – rekao je, kao da mu je ovo drugo prezime. 

7.

Edi i maljutkaš postali su stalni stanovnici rova pod hrastom. Svaki dan sam im donosio ručak. Krenuo bih oko podne, do hrasta bih stigao prije tri. Zajedno bi založili grašak ili šnicele u šugu, a ja bih se potom prevrnuo pod deblo i u hladu proveo dio poslijepodneva. Iz pravca mora ponekad bi čuli tutnjavu topova, a s brijega tu i tamo rafale ili dovikivanje. Popodneva su kraćala, a noću bi ratištem zavladao mir. Ja bih pred suton ustao, pozdravio Edija i Tonija i zaputio se u selo noseći praznu manjerku. Hodao bih, osluškivao suton, a na daleko šištanje vebeera ili topovski tutanj nakratko bi me obuzelo ono staro, izvorno osjećanje straha, osjećanje koje me onog jutra preplavilo u regrutnom centru, da bi ga potom isprali mjeseci rutine.

Jednog poslijepodneva stigao sam do hrasta prteći na leđima pileću juhu, polpete i đuveč. Spustio sam posude na tlo i ugledao bijelu, mesnatu traku koja je visjela s jedne od hrastovih grana. Bila je to koža uhvaćene i pomno oderane zmije.

-Vidi – pohvalio se maljutkaš. Hvastao se onako kako bi to činilo dijete.
-Naučija san ga lovit zmije – rekao je Edi.
-Sa rašljastim štapom – dometnuo je maljutkaš.

Dolina ih je bila puna, zmija i blavora. Druga su se živa stvorenja razbježala: lisice, fazane ili zečeve odavno je već otjerala tutnjava, ptice šumski požari koji bi planuli nakon raketnih plotuna. Samo je zmija bilo posvuda – uglavnom bezopasnih bjelouški, tek rjeđe poskoka. Dokoni vojnici razvaljivali bi suhozide dok ih ne bi razotkrili, a onda bi slijedio lov. Rašljastim bi štapom zmiji pritisnuli glavu, smaknuli je nožem, a potom joj ogulili kožu. Viđao sam taj sport tu i tamo, u pozadini i ovdje na liniji, a Edi ga je očito stigao i usvojiti.

S udivljenjem sam gledao Tonijevu zloćudnu napravu koja je virila iz rova. Maljutka nije izgledala kao oružje, već prije kao neka opaka i skupa geodetska sprava. Pogled na nju nagonio me da klinca poštujem. Ali, on to nije shvaćao. On se naivno hvalio svojom novom vještinom – hvatanjem zmija.

Tog sam popodneva s praznom manjerkom stigao u selo ranije nego inače. Bojnik me ugledao i upitao je li sa zasjedom uz cestu sve u redu. Potvrdno sam kimnuo glavom. U taj čas, na pamet mi je pao bijeli zmijski trbuh kako se klati s krošnje.  

8.

Tonija i Edija nalazio bih tako svakog poslijepodneva: ležali bi lijeno povaljeni u hrastovu hladu, a oružje i dvoglede pobacali bi uz rov da leže poput pocrkale marve. Ako su se gore s brijega katkad i čuli rafali, ako bi topništvo koji put i zagrmjelo poljem, ovdje se nije događalo ništa. Toni i Edi samo bi ležali, drijemali i prdili, i tek bi s vremena na vrijeme dvogledom bacili oko na zavoj. Edija sam već dovoljno poznavao da vidim da rikava od dosade. A Toni, on je našao zabavu. Njega su zaludile zmije.

Kolekcija na najnižoj hrastovoj grani rasla je dnevno. Negdje koncem tjedna po hrastovoj je krošnji visjelo desetak koža, mahom bjelouški, ali i riđovki i poskoka. Neke su bile duguljaste i svijetle, neke kratke, neke crne ili prugaste. Izdaleka su se činile kao riba koju suše neki čudni polineški domoroci, ili kao ženske čarape koje je na sušilo objesilo neko mnogoljudno kućanstvo. Toni je, ukratko, poludio: čim bih se pojavio s dnevnom porcijom fažoleta ili gulaša, pokazao bi mi nove akvizicije u svom kožnatom muzeju, nove gmazove koje je smaknuo štapom i džepnim nožićem. Tragajući za njima lutao je sve dalje od rova, što je Edi primao s razumljivim neodobravanjem.

Toni se u tih nekoliko tjedana i fizički promijenio. Put mu je potamnila, sunce ga je ispeklo, a koža na dlanovima i licu ogrubjela mu je od fine crvene zemlje. Počeo je usvajati hrvatsku ratničku modu: oko glave je držao crnu maramu, okvire sa streljivom položio je u mrežasti prsluk, zavrtao je rukave iz kojih su nedojmljivo virile tanke i bijele violinističke ruke. Uskoro je zmijskim kožama počeo resiti i odoru, vješati ih oko vrata i zadijevati o remen. Pokušavao je biti mačo, i to ga je činilo smiješnim. Možda je zato i lovio zmije, možda je htio prekinuti sa svojom prošlošću čovječje ribice koja živi pod plavičastim neonom, možda je želio ispasti Indijanac, mišićavo, preplanulo, skautsko biće prirode i krepkog zraka. Možda je to htio, ali nisam siguran da mu je uspijevalo.

Jednog je dana bojnik Boris pošao sa mnom u nadgledanje položaja. Dok sam ja kacjolom grabio špagete bolonjeze, on je s interesom razgledao Tonijevu zbirku. Promatrao sam ga: nisam bio načistu gleda li je kao biolog, ili kao psihijatar.

Nije komentirao. Išpotao je Edija i Tonija što su zapustili rov, obišao zavoj, provjerio orijentire i krenuo natrag. Kaskao sam za njim, prteći na leđima polupraznu manjerku špageta. «Neloša zbirka» rekao je pred selom, «svašta je pohvata onaj mali». A onda dodao: «Reci mi iskreno, je li on – onako, ka – puka?» Ništa mu nisam odgovorio.

Te je noći gadno rokalo. Netom što je na selo nalegao rani sumrak, topništvo je počelo grmjeti negdje s mora. Tutnjilo je cijelu noć. Kad sam oko tri uznemiren ustao, vidio sam da se visovi uokolo rumene od vlažne makije koja je nezdravo tinjala. Obišao sam selo. I drugi su se nervozno vrzmali, osluškujući tutnjavu, zagledajući u olovno nebo. Front je oživio, nešto se događalo. 

9.

Oko dvanaest sam uprtio ručak i krenuo ka zasjedi. Paljba je dotad jenjala. Nakon sat i pol hoda stigao sam do razvaljene kapelice na drugoj trećini puta. Do tog časa ni jedna granata nije pala uokolo, premda se s mora čula postojana grmljavina.

Nisam kapelicu prošao ni stotinu metara, tresnulo je.

Opalila je niže niz cestu. Ipak, tresak je svejedno bio tako jak da mi se zaljuljalo u glavi, a uši mi je zaglušilo gusto, postojano zujanje. Odmah je tresnula i iduća, s druge strane ceste.

Najgore je bilo to što su pale kao niotkuda. U ratu zujanje mina slušaš cijeli dan. One šište lijevo i desno od tebe, probijaju zrak uz resko zviždanje. Ali, ove nisu zviždale. Pukle su kao da su oduvijek bile tu, kao da ih je netko posadio i čekao. Uskoro je pala treća, pa četvrta. Bile su tako raspoređene da je bilo jasno da gađaju cestu.

Sakrio sam se iza jedne hridi i osluškivao što će biti. Granate su nasumice praskale po polju, podižući oblačiće dima. Kad bi pokoja pala bliže, hrid iza koje sam se skrio zasuo bi škropac sitnih vapnenačkih piljaka.

Nisam znao što ću. U selo više nisam mogao, ne samo zato što je put do tamo bio dulji, nego i zato što su se detonacije polako premještale niz cestu u tom smjeru. Zaklon koji sam pronašao bio je bijedan: štitio me je samo svaljenog potrbuške, a čak mi ni to ne bi pomoglo da granata opali u vrh susjednih sika. Panika me gušila, ali sam uspio pribrano zbrojiti dva i dva. Trebalo je produžiti dalje, do rova u kojem se nalaze Edi i Toni.

Govna sam mogao pojesti u svakom slučaju. Ali, vatra se premještala u dubinu prema selu, a kod Tonija i Edija čekao me je duboki, solidno iskopani rov, jedini komad pristojne zaštite u cijeloj posranoj dolini. Trebalo je samo doći do tamo, pretrčati posljednji kilometar i pol.

Krenuo sam. Isprva sam osluškivao ispaljenja. Trčao bih, bacio bih se ničice kad bi ih začuo, a nastavljao trčati kad bi ispaljeni projektil tresnuo o zemlju. Namjeravao sam tako stići do cilja, ali to je bila iluzija: pucalo je sa svih strana, rokali su i naši i njihovi, uskoro su se ispaljenja i detonacije s obje strane tako izmiješali da nisi mogao brojati mine u zraku, niti znati tko puca i kamo. Tako sam trčao i bacao se nasumce, gutajući preostali put.

Nakon pola sata ugledao sam obrise bregova i procijep nalik zadnjici. Hrast se sad već mogao vidjeti. Ono što me onespokojilo bili su zvuci s uzvisine, s položaja. Od tamo je žestoko treštala puščana vatra, čuli su se povici, bljeskovi i detonacije. Nikad dotad nisam vidio pješački napad – ali,  ovo je izgledalo i zvučalo baš tako.

Pohrlio sam prema hrastu. Zrak mi je parao bronhije, a slezena su me pekla. Sad su granate već padale i uokolo, ali više se nisam obazirao. Stotinjak metara do zasjede odlučio sam pretrčati u hipu, pa ako me tu i poklopi, onda to samo znači da nisam imao jebene sreće.

Trčao sam sve dok mi se maglovita slika goleme krošnje nije sasvim približila. Tada sam stao i ugledao neočekivan prizor.

Toni i Edi nisu bili sami. Zapravo, oko stabla je vrvjelo od ljudi, baš kao da svijet u zakazano vrijeme čeka seoski autobus.

Edi i Toni su bili tu, dakako – s uperenim oružjem, u maskirnim odorama.

I preostali nazočni imali su maskirne uniforme, ali drukčije: žute šare na odorama bile su jarkije, materijal svjetliji, čizme drukčije. Ediju i Toniju društvo je činila grupica njihovih vojnika.

Nakon mjeseci ratovanja sad sam ih prvi put vidio izbliza.

Srećom, činilo se da Edi i Toni stvar imaju pod kontrolom. Uperili su puške u pravcu razoružanih uljeza. Ovi su pak stajali dignutih ruku, bez pušaka i bombi koje su ležale iza Edijevih leđa, na gomili. I jedni i drugi stajali su uspravno usred tog kreševa, kao da uokolo ne tresu topovi.

-Vidi šta smo povatali – reče Edi čim me je ugledao, mangupski, kao da uživa.

-Njijova patrola – dometne maljutkaš nadobudno. Nakitio se svojim indijanskom bojama: zmijskim kožama, mrežastim prslukom, maramom. Imao sam dojam da ga Crnogorci gledaju u čudu, kao da nisu načistu trebaju li ga se osobito bojati, ili je tek osobito blesav.

Bilo ih je troje: idealan broj za izviđanje ili manju sabotažu. Doimali su se uplašeno onoliko koliko bih i ja bio u njihovoj koži. Izgledali su gladno i otrcano, ali tako smo vjerojatno izgledali i mi.

Jedan među njima izdvajao se po svemu. Bio je visok, sablasno mršav, poduže kose po kojoj si znao da je rezervist. Druga su ga dvojica potajice motrili baš kao da im je mentor ili razrednik. Oni su gledali u tlo, on ne. Gledao je ravno u Edija, baš kao da je zaključio tko je ovdje gazda. Na koncu je progovorio.

-Prijatelju! – obratio se Ediju, oprezno, kao da kroti beštiju.

Ostali smo zapanjeni. Nitko od nas trojice nije očekivao da će nam se jedan od njihovih obratiti. Zapravo, kad danas gledam, mislim da nas je zapanjilo to što oni uopće govore.

-Prijatelju, slušaj me! – ponovio je.
-Materi san ti prijatelj! – obrecne se Edi.
-Slušaj me! Roka uokolo. Izginut će i tvoji i moji. Daj da polegnemo, da se skrijemo, dok ne žvajzne koja.

Edi me pogleda. Klimnuo sam, jedva vidljivo.

-Dobro – reče Edi. – Legnite svi na prsi, tu isprid rova! Dlanove na zatiljak, i ko se makne gotov je…

Učinili su kako je zapovjedio, skljokavši se tromo i uplašeno na tlo. Odmah potom jedna je granata tresnula nedaleko. Nas trojica smo se bacili na tlo isukanog oružja. Gore s brijega i dalje se čula paljba pomiješana s povicima. Pogledao sam uvis, ali jedino što sam vidio bila je debela hrastova grana s nanizanim mesnatim tracima. Tonijevi blavori i riđovke klatili su se na povjetarcu: ovaj ćumez uokolo njih se odavno više nije ticao.

-Šta ćeš s ovima? – upitao sam Edija.
-Kurac, bilo bi ih najbolje pobit, bagru četničku.

Rekao je to, a ja sam pogledao ležeće ljude. Nisu se ni pomakli. Zato se Toni maljutkaš lecnuo, lijepo sam vidio kako mu se na licu smrznuo samouvjereni osmijeh.

-Neš ih pobit – rekao sam. – Čekaćemo da prestane, pa ih vodimo u selo.
Činilo se da je i Ediju laknulo što sam to rekao.  – Istina – promrsio je – mogu služit za razmjenu.

Pogledao sam u nebo. Trebalo je dočekati da tuča završi – ali, ona je trajala i trajala. Kamenim poljem cvali su oblačići sivog dima nakon kojih bi s malim zakašnjenjem uslijedio prasak. Rokalo je, i nije izgledalo kao da će prestati.

Pogledao sam Crnogorce. Imali su siva, umorna lica, bore odavno ispunjene prljavštinom i sitnom zemljom. Mislio sam da ću, ako ih dobro proučim, moći o njima nešto saznati, naslutiti koji bi od njih tamo prijeko mogao biti pekar, vulkanizer ili učitelj. Ali, nisam otkrivao ništa. Svi su imali ista, tjeskobna i sumorna lica, svi kao da su oduvijek bili u vojsci, i kao da će u njoj zauvijek biti. Sjećam se dobro što sam se u tom času zapitao: pitao sam se ne izgledamo li i mi njima tako, jednaki kao jaja, bez prošlosti i bilo kakve posebnosti.

Radio prijemnik je ležao pod hrastom. Zacvrčao je. «Hrast, Hrast, ovdje Kuća», začulo se iz etera. Bio je to glas bojnika Borisa. Začudio sam se kakvom me je pokroviteljskom ugodom ispunio.

«Hrast, čuješ li?» zakrčao je opet radio.
-Tu smo – odgovori Edi.
«Gore je počeo pješački. Je l’ me čuješ? Počeo je pješački.»
-Prijem – odgovori Edi. Pucnjava se s brda pojačala.
«Mi stižemo, ali ide sporo. Tuku, imamo već dva čovika aut. Pazite se i vi, navalit će i cestom.»
-Već su.
«Molim?»
-Već su. Poslali su diverzante. Uvatili  smo ih u zasjedu, njih tri. Evo ih zarobljene. Šta ću sad?

Radio je šutio.

-Šta ću sad? – upita Edi glasnije.

Radio je još šutio.

«Čekaj da dođemo» odgovori profesor nakon dulje stanke. Toni je nervozno lupkao po zatvaraču ciganke. Crnogorci su ležali, ali vidio si da slušaju, da su svi same uši. «Reka je da čekamo», – ponovi Edi, a netom što je to rekao sve se pretopilo u svjetlo i gromki, neizdrživi prasak.

Nisam nikad osjetio bol nalik toj. Vrištao sam kao malouman, a desna me noga pekla od koljena nadolje kao da mi je netko istovremeno i lomi i guli joj kožu metalnim češljem. Nisam čuo ništa doli bučno zujanje. Pogledao sam vlastitu nogu. Bila je na mjestu. Bila je krvava, s obzirom na bol vjerojatno izbušena, ali na mjestu. Bojao sam se da ću umjesto nje vidjeti samo pokidana mišićna vlakna i patrljak. Vidio sam svoju nogu, i to je bilo najvažnije.

Osvrnuo sam se. Crnogorci su ležali gdje i prije, glava duboko zavučenih među dlanove. Činilo se da nisu prošli loše. Edi je međutim ležao na zemlji, a ruka mu je bila krvava iznad lakta. Bio je ranjen.

Pogledom sam potražio Tonija maljutkaša. Stajao točno pod hrastom, na najpogibeljnijem mjestu, posve intaktan kao da je upravo odnekud došao, pa se svemu čudi. I dalje je na nišanu imao Crnogorce, koji se nisu micali.

Znate što je istina? Istina je da smo tog poslijepodneva imali mnogo sreće. Mina od šezdeset milimetara mogla je skrenuti koji metar u stranu i udariti u krošnju. Aktivirala bi se negdje u granama iznad Tonijeve galerije zmija. U tom bi nas slučaju geleri poškropili kao željezni kišobran – i ubili, sve od reda. Toni, koji je protiv regula stajao točno pod deblom, u tom bi se slučaju pretvorio u bezoblično mesnato tijesto.

Ali, mina je pala malo postrance, na meku ilovaču i pijesak makadamske ceste. Od potiska se zarila u tlo i izgubila snagu. Crnogorci, koji su ležali ničice, prošli su lišo. Mi smo klečali držeći ih na nišanu. Zato smo fasovali usporene gelere i sitne grumene šljunka. Bili smo izrešetani, ali čitavi. Ediju je krupni vapnenački okrajak poput bodeža tranširao rame. Ja sam dobio pogodak u list. Toni ništa.

Toni se najednom trgnuo i pohrlio nam u pomoć. Edi ga je, stenjući kroz zube, zaustavio. «Jesi lud!» rekao je, «pusti nas, bog te ubio. Pazi na njih!» Pogledali smo Crnogorce. Samo bi im tren bio dovoljan da se domognu oružja. Tada bismo mi postali zarobljenici, a oni tamničari.

-Javi se. Javi se radijem. Traži Kuću – promrsi Edi, a Toni zgrabi prijamnik i pozove selo. Uokolo je tutnjilo od novih eksplozija. Iz etera se zakratko čulo samo krčanje, a onda se kroz buku probio profesorov glas.

-Alo, Kuća. Ovde Toni, maljutkaš.

Profesor je zvučao iznenađeno.

«Toni, di je Edi?»
-Ranjen. I on i Dino.

Profesor je zvučao zdvojno, kao da mu je već ionako dovoljno nevolja.

«Šta je bilo?»
-Poklopilo nas- reče  Toni, i u taj čas gotovo brizne u plač.
«Di su vam zarobljenici?»
Toni se osvrne: – Ovdi su.

Načas se čulo tek krčanje i šuštanje, a potom detonacije s onu stranu radio veze. Profesor je bio negdje gdje je grdno lupalo.

«Toni!» – zakrčao je radio.
-Ovdi san.
«Ajte šta prije na čuku! Čuješ li me, ajte gori šta prije….»
-A zarobljeni?

Profesor je zašutio. Ja i Edi smo se pogledali. Edi je ležao na boku, krvavog lakta, a ja sam bio izvaljen poleđice, s nogom u traljavom zavoju koji sam improvizirao. Ukrstili smo poglede. Obojici nam je bilo jasno što sada slijedi. Samo Toni to još nije shvaćao.

-Toni – progovori Edi, jedva dišući od bola – Toni, moramo gori na brdo. Gori su naši. Gori je doktor.

-A oni? – Toni je pokazao na trojicu jadnika koji su ležali i slušali.

-Toni, nemoš njih vodit gori dok je napad. Doveja si tako našima neprijatelja iza leđa.
-Vodit ću ih u selo, radi zamjene.
-Nemoš doć do sela. Nema više sela. Nema u selu više nikog.
-Pa ne mogu ih pustit…
-Istina, ne moš.  Iznenadiće naše, od straga.
-Pa šta ću ih onda – ubit?

Edi nije rekao ništa. Pogledao sam Crnogorce i shvatio da ni oni sami više ne gaje nade. Samo Toni još nije razumio.

-Ne mogu, ne mogu ih.
-Meni je ruka smrskana, Dino se ne može dignit.
-Ne mogu to.
-Toni, ništa drugo nemoš. – Edi mu je strpljivo odgovorio, kao da  podučava idiota.

Toni je pogledao mene. Ja sam kratko šutio, a onda klimnuo glavom. Dan danas se kunem, nikad mi nije bilo teže reći jednu rečenicu. «Ništa drugo nemoš» rekao sam, i pogledao Crnogorce.

Visoki je ukočeno gledao u pod, pomiren i dostojanstveno krut. Najnižem od trojice  počela je drhtati brada, a onda je briznuo u jecaje. Strah ga je obojio u mojom očima. Gledao sam ga, svjetlokosog i onižeg, i mislio o tome kako je tamo prijeko možda učitelj, pravnik ili knjigovođa. Nije se činio kao netko tko ima obitelj, ali to nisi mogao znati. U svakom slučaju, ako je ima, više je neće vidjeti.

-Ne mogu ih ubit. Ne ovako. – zagrcne se Toni, sad već ozbiljno preko ruba plača. – Nemaju oružje, ništa.

-Jesi ti zdrav? Šta oćeš? Da in vratimo oružje? Jel misliš da je ovo dvoboj, okej koral? – Edi je bjesnio, a njegov mi se bijes nije činio pravednim. Toni je imao zdravu ruku. Toni je to morao učiniti. Toniju je ionako bilo dovoljno teško, nije mu trebalo još otežavati.

Stajali smo tako, a uokolo je gruvalo. Niži Crnogorac je jecao. Visoki je gledao pozorno u pod, kao da se među travkama krije tajna šifra, kao da prije nego što se pomiri sa svijetom želi raspetljati neki posljednji nerješivi ključ. Toni je dahtao od užasa, s puškom uperenom u trojicu, pogleda uprtog u nas. Edi je sve gore krvario. Trebalo je požuriti i stvar privesti kraju.

Ali, Toni se još nije dao. «Kuća, Kuća, ovde Hrast!», zaurlao je u radio prijemnik. «Prijem!», začulo se s druge strane.

-Kuća, vodin zarobljene i ranjene do vas.
«Toni, ajde gori na čuku.»

Toni nije odmah odgovorio. Profesor ga je stoga zazvao iz etera, glasom koji je odavao nestrpljenje. «Kuća, šta ću sa zarobljenima?» upitao je Toni, posljednji put.

«Znaš šta» – odgovori profesor.
-Šta?
«Znaš šta, Toni.»

Toni je odložio prijemnik, blijed kao vosak.

Pogledao sam Crnogorce. Sad su bili konačno osuđeni. Osudio ih je profesor, premda ni on nije izrekao riječ sa slovom «u», baš kao nitko prije toga. Ono što će se sad dogoditi nitko nije htio spomenuti imenom.

Zatvorio sam oči. Začuo sam rafal, neprirodno dug, a potom tišinu.

Kad sam otvorio oči, Crnogorci su bili mrtvi, Tonijeva puška ležala je na podu, a Toni je stajao pod hrastom, skamenjen. Nije mogao oči odvojiti od onog što je učinio.

Trojica su ležali mrtvi, bezizražajnih pogleda, izvaljeni, kao na kratkom odmoru prije novog napora.

Zažalio sam što sam ih pogledao. Da nisam, ne bih ih sad sanjao. A sanjam ih – ne baš svake noći, ali često. Sanjam tri mrtva tijela koja gledaju nebo. Sanjam njihove oči koje gledaju, ali ne vide. Ne vide oblake, ne vide grane, ni mrtve zmije što se bezbrižno ljuljaju na popodnevnom vjetru.

-Idemo – rekao je Edi. – Ajmo prije nego što opali iduća.

Edi je bio najpribraniji. Ili – možda – najlošiji čovjek. Kako god bilo, učinili smo što je rekao. Bili smo živi, a živi čine sve da požive što duže. 

10.

Nikad se više nisam vratio do hrasta na zavoju ceste. Toni je još jednom otišao tamo, sutra ujutro, da pokupi maljutku koja je ostala ležati u rovu. Kazao mi je kako su tijela Crnogoraca i dalje tamo. Netko od naših posuo ih je vapnom, da ne smrde. Smrdjelo je zato vapno, što je bilo gotovo jednako loše.

Tog listopadskog utorka, izvijestili su na radiju, odbili smo neprijateljski pješački napad po cijeloj liniji bojišta. Dva dana poslije naši su krenuli u protunapad i potisnuli Crnogorce jedanaest kilometara dublje. Rov pod hrastom više ničemu nije služio. Ostao je tamo, kao spomen na davni, glupi rat. Možda je i sad tamo, jamačno pun lišća, plići jer ga zasipa zemlja. Sumnjam da ga je itko zatrpavao: i ožiljci na ljudima ovdje se jedva stignu zaliječiti, tko bi onda liječio ožiljke na zemlji.

Ako je rov još tamo, tamo su možda i maljutkaševe zmije. Kad sam ga pitao što je s njima učinio, rekao mi je da ih je ostavio gdje su i bile. Možda se još klate na buri i jugu, sad već sasvim crne i suhe. Toni ih više nije trebao: postao je Indijanac, preplanulo, otvrdnulo biće, onakvo kakvo je htio biti.
Bolje bi bilo da nije. Bilo bi bolje za njega da se život može odvrtjeti kao kaseta na rewind, da se može vratiti na onu jutro kad je izišao iz kampanjole, blijed kao čovječja ribica, zguren, s rukama bijelim i tankim kao da svira violinu. Ali, ne možeš život vratiti na rewind. Toni ne može više ne biti ubojica. Ja, ne mogu ne biti suučesnik.

Dva dana nakon događaja pod hrastom naši su protunapadom  potisnuli Crnogorce. To je, kako se kaže, povijest. Mi u toj povijesti više nismo sudjelovali. Nismo bili tamo – ni Toni, ni Edi, ni profesor, ni ja.
Ta sam dva dana proveo u sanitetu, gdje se neki apsolvent medicine učio struci na mojoj probušenoj nozi. Bio sam lakopokretni ranjenik, pa su me za Split poslali zajedno sa smjenom. Došepao sam do autobusa i sjeo uz prozor. Kroz prljavo staklo ugledao sam Tonija kako razdužuje maljutku. Popeo se u bus. Ugledao me je, sjetno klimnuo na pozdrav, ali nije sjeo do mene.

Putovali smo dugo. Negdje pred večer autobus je s makadama tresnuo na ravni asfalt, na istom onom mjestu gdje smo se davno oprostili od normale. Po asfaltnoj cesti njemačka je makinja prela ugodno i tiho, ali to mi više nije ništa značilo.

Kasno u noći prešli smo planinski prijevoj i izbili na zaobilaznicu. Pod nama se otvorio vidik na zaljev i na Split. Odozgo se doimao poput velegrada. Gorjele su visoke peći, reflektori disko klubova, aerodrom, gradilišta, stadion. Tisuće svjetala gorjela su združeno, kao veliki drhturavi grozd, neki futuristički grad iz «Ratova zvijezda». Autobus je klizio nadolje, k moru, k epicentru svjetla.

Tamo dolje ljudi su jeli, čitali novine, spavali, jebavali se, gledali filmove, pili kapučino, opijali se ili gluvarili po srednjovjekovnim kalama. Tamo dolje paralelno su plutali neki anonimni životi – tisuće njih, uključujući živote mojih staraca, susjeda, znanaca. Tamo dolje ništa se važno nije dogodilo: ljudi će i sutra čitati novine, cementara će i sutra rigati musavi dim, Željkica će me potkradati, a moja stara rješavati križaljke uz tursku kavu kojoj se fundać polako stvrdnjava u šalici. Njima dolje ništa se nije promijenilo, samo nama.

Pogledao sam profesora. Sjedio je na prednjem sjedištu, sklopljenih kapaka kao da meditira ili moli. Možda je spavao. Možda je u glavi pisao magisterij, mislio na opne i ticala kornjaša i hrušteva, raznovrsne rase koje se plode, množe, grade i ratuju, vođene planom i naumom koji im nije jasan i koji nikad ne propituju. Možda je mislio i na ona tri tijela pokrivena gašenim vapnom – iako sumnjam u to.

O njima je zato mislio Toni. Sjedio je u prednjem dijelu busa, na sigurnoj distanci od mene, svog sukrivca. Piljio je u jesenski dalmatinski mrak. Mogao sam se kladiti da preko tog mraka vidi beživotne oči uprte u nebo.

Znao sam što će biti kad se spustimo dolje, u svjetlo. Autobusi će nas ostaviti na parkingu brodogradilišta. Pušteni s lanca, vojnici će se razmiljeti po gradu, onakvi kakvi jesu – nečisti, u prljavim uniformama. Deficit alkohola nakon tjedana terena nadoknadit će u birtijama, oštrom dozom stocka ili šibenske travarice. Pripiti će se dopotezati do peep showa gdje će iz sigurnosti kabine vlažiti oči na tustoj striptizeti. Za takve je stvari služio rat muškarcu srednjih godina: za posljednji vjetrić avanture, za dopušten bijeg od kuće, od debele žene i dnevne dosade. Rat je za takvo što bio odličan – bolji od večernje škole, subotnjeg basketa, nogometnih tučnjava.

Problem je s Tonijem što on nije bio srednjih godina. Toni je bio klinac. On još nije imao debelu ženu i djecu, nije čekao s familijom Novu godinu, gradio vikendicu ni pekao prase. Kad se napokon spustimo u grotlo svjetla, umjesto u peep show on će otići kući, u klinačku sobu s posterima nad krevetom.

Zatvorio sam oči. Pokušao sam misliti o bilo čemu drugom – o  nogometu, seksu ili materinoj večeri. Ali, to s očima bio je šlampavi trik. Onog časa kad bih zatvorio kapke, vidio bih ono od čega sam cijelo vrijeme bježao: tijela pokrivena vapnom, i crne zmijske kože kako se klate pod sivim nebom.

To što bih vidio, vidio je i Toni. Bili smo dva od iste vrste, samotni primjerci u ovom busu, punom običnih ljudi koji hrle običnim kućama, svom utočištu i svojoj sreći.

Kad bi se u kućnoj spremi smeća dovoljno nakupilo, rukovatelj obiteljskim plovilom napunio bi papirne kese u barku, upalio pentu i otplovio iza treće punte, gdje bi sadržaj vrećica s otpadom izručio bogu Posejdonu.

U ovoj ekološki naoko strašnoj priči postoji, međutim, jedna olakotna okolnost. Tog smeća je, naime, bilo jako malo. Slavenka Drakulić davno je napisala da su socijalistički građani zbog opsesije reciklažom izgradili nehotice ekološku civilizaciju, a još je pogotovo tako bilo na otoku, gdje je bilo što teško dovesti, a još teže odvesti.

U ta doba ambalaža je bila socrealistički skromna, hrana se kupovala refužo, a od svega organskog radio se kompost. Ostatke objeda jele su mačke, limenke su postajale lonci za geranije, a plastične kante ili sinjal za vrše ili bokobrani. Međutim, prošla su desetljeća i život se na otoku promijenio. Danas na tom istom otoku dnevno s vapora silaze kubici stiropora, plastike i metalne ambalaže, smeće je sve šuštavije i voluminoznije, a koliko mi je poznato, problem se smeća rješava baš kao i nekad. Civilizaciju skromne reciklaže zamijenio je konzumizam, a da ništa uokolo za nj nije bilo spremno.

Ova bodulska ekološka parabola često mi padne na um kada se u javnom prostoru počne govoriti o jednom drugom, jednako ozloglašenom smeću, a to je smeće kulture spektakla. Hrvatska je, vele moralni paničari, poklekla pred civilizacijom kulturnog i zabavnog šunda. Prema službenim podacima, samo u ovoj godini broj posjeta kazalištu opao je za 9%, a onaj kinima opao je i više, iako konačnih brojki još nema. Ni jedan domaći film nije prešao 6000 gledatelja, ni jedan strani 105.000, videoteke se zatvaraju, ljestvicom hitova vlada dvije godine jedino Don Brown. Svi tradicijski i moderni oblici kulturne konzumacije povukli su se i teško brane ostatke ostataka publike, a na njihovo mjesto stupio je postmoderni zabavno-medijski amalgam koji opredmećuje uzbilj Warholovu krilaticu o petnaest minuta slave.

HTV je naspram RAI-a gromobran

Još pred četrdeset godina komitet je mogao ozbiljno raspravljati o tome zašto šarene revije ne zanimaju trudbenici i heroji rada, nego njihov interes plijene oni koji nešto glume, pjevaju ili šutiraju loptu. Danas možemo biti samo nostalgični za vremenima kad su novinske stupce punili oni koji su doista barem otpjevali hit ili zabili gol. Danas su centralne figure javnog imaginarija persone poput who-the-hell-is Lane Pavić ili malomišćanskog fašistoidnog idiota Matka. Taj vrtuljak vječnog medijskog prezenta neprestano kao gorivo lože nove Rafe i Kedže koji nakon upotrebe nestaju u retrovizoru jureće mašine. Riječ je o trijumfu banalnosti na koji je ponajbolje odgovorio sinjski multimedijski umjetnik Siniša Labrović koji je slaveći beznačajnost upriličio reality show za – ovce.

U ovom trijumfu mediokritetstva – naravno – nismo jedini i osamljeni. Naša javna TV civilizacijski je gromobran spram talijanske, o čemu mogu posvjedočiti svi koji gledaju popodnevne show programe RAI-ja. Naše novine – ma koliko šute – zakopčana su moralna glasila spram britanskih tabloida. Kulturna dekadansa nipošto nije samo u nas predmetom moralne panike, a neki od očeva mislilaca Busheve konzervativne doktrine – poput Irvinga Cristola ili Lea Straussa – izgradili su svoje misleće opuse na kritici degradirane zabavne kulture. I ako po sadržaju idiotizirane kulture možda i nismo najgori, bojim se da po efektu koji ona proizvodi prednjačimo u lošem. A da bih to argumentirao, vratio bih se na početak i na otočnu prispodobu sa smećem.

Nespremni za zabavni bordel

Pred dvadeset ili trideset godina i domaću je kulturu, baš kao i sadržaj kanti za smeće, određivalo prinudno ekologiziranje. Imalo se manje, ali ono što se imalo trebalo je biti trajnije i postojnije, baš poput limenke koja postaje pitar ili kante antifriza koja će sljedeću dekadu signalizirati parangal. I u kulturi, baš kao i u deponiranju otpada, naša je kultura uletjela nespremno grlom u svijet drečavih, šuštavih i kabastih omota koje se ne može ni reciklirati ni baciti.

U ozbiljnim i spomena vrijednim civilizacijama taj isti zabavni bordel nalijeće na čvrste zasade vladajuće klase, proizvodnje, pa čak i dominantne religije. U nas, dakle u jednoj neozbiljnoj, kolonijalnoj kulturi s ruba, tih stupova nema. Građanska je klasa u svojim preostalim zametcima pometena, religija je u Hrvatskoj zapravo metaideološka sprdnja, a dominantna kultura nije ona proizvodnje, nego uvoza i konzumacije.

Ozbiljne mehanizme socijalne samoregulacije prije komunizma nismo ni imali, one stečene u komunizmu smo odbacili, pa smo se pred invazijom krep-papira i katodnih “celebrities” našli goli i bijeli, nezaštićeni krvnim zrncima doličnog imuniteta. Završili smo na koncu slično kao Azteci, koji su u dodiru s Cortezovom konjicom imunološki nespremni pomrli od obične gripe. Naša gripa nije bubonička groznica, simptomi joj nisu crvenilo, fibra ni piknjice. Ta je groznica drukčija, ali je svejedno groznica. Možemo se tek nadati da će i u kulturi, kao i epidemiologiji, oni koji prežive postati imuni.

Službena ideologija još je uvijek bila samoupravni kardeljizam, marksizam se kao službena ideologija učio u školi, a marksistički udžbenik Maje Uzelac počinjao je Dylanovom budnicom “Times They Are Changing”. Neki pametni profesori po Frankfurtima i Londonima poučavali su u to doba kako trijumfalni kapitalizam nije baš djevičanski bijel. Sve te frankfurtske škole, Jamesoni, Althusseri i Eagletoni u mudrim su knjigama zborili kako kapitalizam “uzdiže profit kao robu”, “pretvara kreativnu jedinku u pasivnog potrošača”, kako demokracija i zakoni “pogoduju bogatima nauštrb siromašnih”, te kako se sustav temelji na radnom iscrpljivanju pojedinca i uzimanju novca iz njegova džepa proizvodnjom lažnih potreba.

Svi ti mudri marksistički analitičari gledali su na sirote oči kako se čak i njihova dojučerašnja braća okreću mrskom zlatnom teletu, liberalnoj ideologiji. Kao arkadijsko utočište imali su Hrvatsku i Korčulu – ubavu zemljicu u kojoj neki marksisti praksisovci pišu pametne knjige o molohu kapitalizma, gdje plaže nisu zagađene gramzivim akvaparkovima, a riba dolazi ravno iz mora. Tamo su na korčulanskim filozofskim danima marksisti uz blitvu i gofa na gradele bistrili sve aporije kapitalizma, slabo primjećujući da okolni samoupravljački plebs malo haje za to. Već načet sirenskim zovom moloha, već sveden na “pasivnog potrošača”, domaćini filozofskih susreta hrlili su pretilih gepeka do Trsta i nazad, kupovali na Ponte Rossu rebatinke, pampersice, teflon tave i igraće karte Del Negro Treviso.

Ovo društvo koje živimo u velikoj je mjeri proizvod vjere koja ga kritizira

I – gle čuda! U sljedećim godinama baš će se zemlja marksističke “arkadije” pretvoriti u najgori košmar. Zemlja filozofskih seminara odat će se zlatnom telcu nacije (Hobsbowm bi rekao – “primitivnom, zločestom i kulturno nezadovoljavajućem”), egoizam će postati građevna ciglica društva, a za onima koji bi se još drznuli spominjati aporije kapitalizma svjetina se nabacivala kamenjem i vikala im da su “komunjare”. Sve smo fore popušili, ama baš sve po spisku: strane korporacije, šoping centre, mobitel groznicu, Valentinovo, Svetog Patrika i Big Brother. Zemlja koja je imala najopremljeniji filozofski eskadron za demontiranje mrskog kapitalizma popila je taj kapitalizam kao gladni glamac ešku, bez imalo zadrške, ushićeno i fanatično.

UDŽBENIK S DYLANOM

Je li itko tada, pred 15 godina, mogao i u najluđem snu misliti da će ne tako daleke 2005. na pulpit zagrebačke prvostolnice izići hrvatski primas Josip Bozanić i da će s tog mjesta konzervativnog autoriteta kršćanskom puku poslati iste one misli i teze kojih se nejasno sjećam iz udžbenika s Bobom Dylanom umjesto prologa, a nešto jasnije iz fakultetskog marksističkog štiva. Josip Bozanić tako nam je u božićnoj poslanici objasnio kako “ideologija liberalizma, štoviše libertinizma”, “profit postavlja kao središnju vrijednost”, kako “država štiti moćne, a ne slabe”, te kako je u novoj ekonomiji čovjek “degradiran u pasivnog potrošača”. Nakon što čuje takva dubinska promišljanja sociokulturnih prijepora današnjice, čovjek može ostati samo otvorenih usta. Ma vidi bogati! U kapitalizmu je najvažniji profit?! Rad je postvaren, roba je fetiš?! Lažna demokracija štiti interese kapitala?! Čovjeka se svodi na konzumenta?! Hvala, monsinjore, sve to već dugo znamo, pametni ljudi davno su to napisali u knjigama koje su nas u školi tjerali čitati. Šteta da ste se svega toga domislili tek sad kad su Big Brother i Valentinovo tu, da ste možda te svoje vrijedne primisli s nama podijelili ‘90. ili ‘91., možda bi ova jadna zemlja bila malo drukčije i bolje društvo.

MORALNI PANIČARI

Činjenica da Crkva u Hrvatskoj već dugo gaji antikapitalističku retoriku mnoge političke komentatore šokira, ali bez razloga. Liberalizam je već odavno, barem od pada Zida, doktrinarno proglašen glavnim neprijateljem kršćanstva, gorim od komunizma. Politika obrane identiteta koju zagovara marksist Terry Eagleton danas je uvelike slična retorici kolumni Josipa Jovića, kritika šund-kulture američkih neo-konzervativnih mislilaca ne razlikuje se preveć od one socrealista, a šašave geopolitičke konstrukcije Domazeta Loše podsjećaju toliko na ukoričene geopolitičke misli velikana titoizma poput Jakova Blaževića. To što danas kršćanski moralni paničari preuzimaju žargon i društvene ciljeve zrelog marksizma, ne kompromitira ni njih ni marksiste, niti je argument da su jedni ili drugi u krivu. Ali Katolička crkva bi bila mnogo uvjerljivija u svom zakašnjelom i tugaljivom otkriću zala kapitalizma kad bi osvijestila i svoje mjesto u degradirajućoj dijagnozi koju razotkriva. Društvo koje živimo, po mnogo čemu doista strašno i žalosno, u velikoj je mjeri proizvod iste konfesije koja ga kritizira. Preciznije – ona je ovakvo društvo odlučujuće umijesila!

Ne mislim pritom na one očigledne i prvoloptaške prigovore koje Crkvi svi uzvraćaju (s pravom), poput činjenice da je nijemo gledala tajkunizaciju deset godina i uključila se u kritiku te ekonomije premlako i prekasno, ili činjenice da se javno protivi zgrtanju, a sama zgrće nekretnine, gradi bajoslovna zdanja, deložira kina, knjižnice i fakultete. Sudioništvo Crkve u izgradnji tranzicijskog zlatnog teleta mnogo je dublje. Jer, i Crkva spada u institucije koje su nacionalnom “mi-smo-uvijek-bili-Europa” retorikom idiotizirale puk i učinile ga posve nesposobnim za distanciranje od zapadnih potrošačkih trendova.

Crkva je bila ta koja je potpuno pogrešno locirala glavnog protivnika u devedesetima i nastavila idejni rat protiv nekog fantomskog neokomunizma. Ostrašćena starim ideološkim zavadama, nije ni primijetila da u devedesetima nestaju ustanove javnog dobra koje su – sviđalo se ili ne – bile autentična “crvena” stečevina. Crkve nigdje nije bilo kad je trebalo braniti urbano planiranje, svima dostupno dolično zdravstvo, društvenu solidarnost, međunacionalnu slogu. Za sve te “komunjarske” stečevine Kaptol nije u devedesetima davao ni bijele, a da smo ih uspjeli tada spasiti, danas ne bismo bili igračka u rukama gramzivog privatnog interesa. I zato me istinski ljuti što zagrebački kardinal danas pred svjetinom i TV kamerama citira frankfurtsku školu i klasike marksizma. Taj je rat gotov, monsinjore, nacija koja tako voli biti kolonija predala se novom dominatoru.

Sve je tako teklo po monotonom pravcu ciničnog tranzicijskog svagdana, sve dok tog popodneva koncem prošlog tjedna na Islas Canarias španjolski policajci nisu jednom muškarcu ruke vezali za leđa.

U osam dana, koliko je prošlo otkad su Španjolci uhitili najtraženijeg balkanskog globtrotera, tanušna koprena normaliteta koja je visjela preko hrvatskog društvenog lica pala je kao da je nikad nije ni bilo. Kao da smo opet u vremenu Žankovih i Čaićevih budnica, kao da nikad nisu ni prošla ona “lijepa” vremena stožera digniteta, bijelih lubanja i crnih vrana. Sa svakog zida opet čitamo slovo U s raspelom.

Na provincijskim radijima trešte estradne davorije armirane patosom u duru i molu. Provincijska politička spadala za Gotovinu organiziraju molitvene večeri, skupljaju novčanu pomoć i pišu pisma podrške. Devedesete su se vratile, ali shizofrenije nego ikad: Vlada jednom rukom locira i hvata pobjedničke generale, a s drugom se kune da će im pred sudom pomoći k’o da su nam rod rođeni. S jedne strane, Sanaderova družba prima pohvale što je raščistila grijehe prošlosti, s druge, pak, sa saborske govornice hadezeovci grme protiv javne televizije jer se – zamislite – drznula loše prozboriti o Tuđmanu.

Zastupnici grme u obranu tzv. temeljnih zajedničkih vrijednosti, Goran Milić u nedjeljnom Dnevniku kune nepravični svijet, Bandić najavljuje navrat-nanos da će Tuđmanu naći primjereni trg, a svi mediji, javnost i politika kliču da će okom i skokom pomoći jučerašnjem bjeguncu. Malo se tko tu sjeti da će pred istu klupu sjesti i još neki optuženi, koji, na primjer, nisu četiri godine bježali, koji nisu smatrali da zakon za njih ne važi i ismijavali pravnu državu. Upravo to što nisu bili mangupi, što nisu pili španjolske butelje u biranoj taverni, što u lažnoj putovnici nemaju žigove Mauricijusa, Čilea i Kine, kao da ih čini sasvim nezanimljivima u ovom našem hajdučkom vilajetu koji je uvijek volio sjecikese, a mrzio zakone, poreze, državu i red.

Zašto smo prodali naše dečke

I tako je ova jadna zemlja ušla u novu fazu spektakularnog cinizma. Istina – ljude iz devedesetih isporučujemo Haagu, ali to ne znači da s njima isporučujemo devedesete. “Haaška suradnja” nije čak ni cinično pranje savjesti kiselinom, nego još gore – obična, formalna realpolitička gesta. Dok neke ljude šaljemo na sud zbog politike koja je bila krvava i u ljudskom smislu zla, tu istu politiku u toj istoj zemlji ne smije se dirnuti na HTV-u, njenim se perjanicama dijele metropolitanski trgovi, a njen se zaudarajući balast naziva “temeljnim društvenim vrijednostima”.

U takvoj konstelaciji, suradnja s Haagom doista je postala nešto poput gimnastičarskog obaveznog programa, ili ispita za viši mandarinski činovnički stalež, prazni ritual iza kojeg ne stoji nikakva refleksija, samokritika, tronutost. I kad je već tako, onda nije pogrešno reći da mi doista “prodajemo” generale za pretpristupne fondove, agrarne poticaje i Tempus projekte, baš kao što vele nacionalni bukači. Mi jesmo trampili “naše dečke”, a problem je jedino u tom što smo dobili zauzvrat. Jer, postoji samo jedna roba koju se može i smije kupiti za haašku protuvrijednost. Ta roba je, nažalost, nešto što ovdje nitko ne želi i ne treba, a zove se oprost i čista savjest.

Tri vrste ‘pravih’ hrvata

Koji dan nakon što je Guardia civil Gotovinu prekinula u gustiranju butelje Marques de Caseresa, u ruke sam dobio knjigu koja se na stotinjak i kusur strana bavi upravo onim vremenima, onim duhom i onom ljestvicom vrijednosti koju je ova zemlja mogla i morala ispljunuti, a to nije učinila. Knjiga o kojoj je riječ zbirka je poezije “Pjesme iz Lore” kolumnista Globusa i mog sugrađanina Borisa Dežulovića.

U stotinjak pjesama ove zastrašujuće i briljantne zbirke Dežulović se manje bavi Lorom kao toposom ratnog iživljavanja, a mnogo šire i više onim mentalitetom i ideologijom za koje Hebrang i družina u Saboru ne primjećuju da su bili izopačeni, đavolji i grešni. U Dežulovićevoj zbirci nalazimo Grundig televizore ukradene u Lapcu, otkinute uši u kutiji cigara, uličare koji su postali heroji, župnike koji blagoslivlju oružje, pirove koji počinju himnom. Tu su i minareti sravnjeni bagerom, i “zauzeto Hrvat” i konfiscirani kalašnjikovi, i propucane noge i spomenici dignuti dinamitom. Tih sto stranica čistog crnila najvažnija su domaća knjiga koju sam pročitao godinama unatrag, ujedno knjiga koja klinički opisuje ono sranje koje baš nikako ne kanimo izbaciti iz glave.

U jednoj od pjesama zbirke, “Mi Hrvati”, četiri se pripita veterana svađaju tko je od njih “veći Hrvat”. Jedan od njih tvrdi da su to oni koji su Hrvati bili prije 1990., drugi da su to oni koji su ratovali, treći kaže da je Hrvat “biološka činjenica”. Na vrhuncu zavade, jedan će od njih drugog sasjeći rafalom. Kako pametni ljudi znaju da život oponaša umjetnost, a ne obratno, tako se i ova pjesma ovih dana opredmetila u zbilji. U Kaštel Štafiliću skupina mladića vršnjaka pijuckala je vino i pekla lignje, sve dok se na TV-u nije pojavio prilog o Gotovini.

Politička rasprava pretvorila se u zavadu “tko je veći Hrvat”, a na njezinu vrhuncu jedan od “patriota” na drugog je nasrnuo nožem. Stvarni jadnici iz Kaštela tako su, ne znajući, ponovili usud papirnatih likova, što je ironija kakvu bi sigurno volio Borges. Nama, međutim, nije do postmoderne ironije, jer previše smo u bedu. Gledam u novinama tu bijednu terasu u Štafiliću, taj neožbukani zid i armature koje strše u zrak. Mislim na idiote s tisuću i po kuna prihoda koji se mlataraju i bodu noževima zbog bonvivana u bijeloj košulji koji pije Marques de Caseres. Ništa im nije jasno i nikog nema tko bi im to objasnio. Jer, lagarije su u ovoj zemlji uvijek bile roba za kojom je najveća jagma, one opijaju baš kao miris tamjana, baruta i bengalki.