The Black Water of Limbo / Crna voda limba (story & strip)

A cloudy fog was rising above Miljacka River near the ‘Two Fishermen’ tavern and across from the burnt post office building with its windows gaping like holes out of freshly spilled eye balls. Packs of semi-wild dogs were sniffing around the garbage containers knocking over the leftover cans of food which had already been licked by people to a ‘high gloss’ shine. They were checking out random by-passers blowing away steam in the breath of icy cold air. Hungry and dangerous eyes of the dogs some of popular breeds which could hardly be recognized due to the accumulated filth and skeleton-like leanness out of starvation. Once upon a time spaniels, poodles, German shepherds, and ‘Lassies’ were wandering the streets alongside the old, experienced stray or ‘commune dogs’ as people would call them. A story goes that these dogs could be extremely dangerous especially after a curfew in place when streets get deserted; that they could recognize a camouflage uniform and that some have eaten human remains left in nobody’s fields; also that they would stay away from people during the day light but would become worse than wolves at night. Quiet Sarajevo in early winter dawn, slippery streets, and evaporation from Miljacka River warmed by its own flow. Random guards on duty on cross roads. A sniper sporadically shooting and once the fog is lifted he shoots at a cardboard box left on the bridge making it jump around with every hit since it’s too early for more serious targets.

Yes, it really was those packs of dogs that I saw on my way home from the movie montage which I had finished at six p.m. a day before but was forced to sleep over in post-production as there was no transportation available. My wife and son stayed home alone and I was worried about them; however, I was somehow certain that they were fine and at the same time I was eager to see them sooner rather than later as a dark anxiety started to overwhelm me. So I decided to take a shortcut across the bridge by the city theatre thinking that I could run it over quickly and take my chances, it was an early and foggy morning after all and hopefully nobody would notice me. I could hear the machine gun fire hammering the containers at the crossroad next to the Presidency, bullets whistling through the air before hitting the metal. It’s still far, I thought. I kept thinking about the small room and two cuddling bodies inside, one small and another little bigger keeping each other warm and hopefully, God willing, having nice dreams. I could see a trace of water slowly leaking down the wall, must be condense, across from which they lie on a mattress thrown on the floor, covered with a few blankets. God knows if that water got frozen over night? I ran across the bridge; frigid air ripping through my lungs; my pace following the speed of my desire to get home and make sure ‘everything was fine’ so I could then lie down next to my female and my cub. In that moment my eye caught a glimpse of the following scene: a policeman chasing away some dogs standing above a rolled bundle; his eyes revealing something more terrifying than a fear itself as he called another policeman who appeared somewhat stronger and more serious, likely his superior, spitting on the ground and yelling so resoundingly as his voice echoed through Masarikova Street:

- Fuck! It’s a curse! A huge trouble is upon us all!

I could see that strong man, who did not cry but looked worse than crying, his hands collapsing from his face and shouting with both of his hands in the air:

-Throw it in the river. Let it take it down the stream. It’s a curse, fuck, phew!

I stopped and watched and my eyes saw this: the other policeman lifts something, rolled in a white linen, as tiny as a loaf of bread; he runs to the bridge, throws it into the river, raising then dropping his hands uncertain what to do, then runs back. I still stood there; the bigger man just gave me a look as he passed by. Another man stood frozen for a while, his eyes more opaque than the river in which he had thrown it.

Everything will be forgotten but there is only one fear: that I understood what just happened. And a deep wish that what was in that bundle wasn’t what I thought it was. But it was.

(Excerpt from Yellov Snow, translated by Aida Krneta)

In late 90's artist Senad Mavrić was made comics based on this story and published it in Strip Art magazine in Sarajevo, click a photo for free PDF

CRNA VODA LIMBA Mutna magla nadvila se nad obalu Miljacke, tamo kod kafane ‘Dva ribara’ preko puta spaljene pošte, čija su prozorska okna zjapila crninom kao duplje tek iscurjelih očiju. čopori poludivljih pasa njuškali su okolo kanti za smeće, prevrtali su konzerve već od ljudi polizane do ‘visokog sjaja’, zagledali su rijetke prolaznike, otpuhivali paru dahćući ledeni vazduh. Gladne i opasne oči pasa, među kojima ima i onih sa vrhunskim pedigreom koji se teško prepoznaju od naslaga prljavštine i zbog užasne izmrašavljenosti. Nekadašnji koker-španijeli, pudle, njemački ovčari, ‘lesiji’ lutali su zajedno sa onim starim, iskusnim psima lutalicama ili ‘komunalcima’ kako ih je raja ponekad zvala. Pričalo se da ti psi znaju biti veoma opasni, posebno poslije policijskog časa kada opuste ulice, pričalo se da zaziru od maskirne uniforme, da prepoznaju naoružana čovjeka, da su neki od tih pasa okusili i ljudske leševe zaostale negdje na ničijoj zemlji, da se po danu drže podalje od ljudi ali da noću postaju gori od vukova. Muklo Sarajevo u ranu zimsku zoru, klizave ulice, izmaglica od isparenja Miljacke koja se grije svojim tokom. Rijetke straže na raskršćima. Snajper koji kroz maglu tuče u ‘prazno’ a kada se magla digne ganja i pomjera nekakvu kartonsku kutiju zaostalu na mostu, odbacuje svakim hicem znajući da je još rano za ozbiljnije mete. Da, bili su to baš ti psi u rano zimsko jutro kada sam se vraćao sa nekakve montaže koju sam završio još u šest navečer, ali morao sam prenoćiti u postprodukciji jer nije bilo prevoza. Moja žena i sin ostali su sami, plašio sam se šta je bilo s njima, nekako u sebi bio sam siguran da su dobro, ali crna zebnja molila je da se što prije vidimo. Zato sam odlučio da skratim put i da krenem preko mosta kod pozorišta, bilo je jutro, sumaglica, pretrčaću pa šta bude, valjda me neće skužiti. Slušao sam kako PAM razvaljuje kontejnere kod higijenskog, kako šica i udara u metal. Daleko je to. Pomišljam na sobicu i dva zagrljena tijela, jedno malo, drugo malo veće, kako se griju jedno uz drugo i daj Bože, sanjaju. Niz zid nasuprot madraca bačenog na pod, gdje su se zatrpali jorganom i dekama, lagano curi voda, neki kondenz Bog zna šta, ili je ta voda noćas zaledila? Pretrčao sam most, ledeni zrak cijepao mi je kroz pluća, korak je pratio brzinu želje da se dođe do kuće, da se uvjeri u nadu da je ‘sve u redu’, pa tek onda da se zavuče u brlog kraj svoje ženke i mladunčeta. I samo krajem oka vidio sam ovo:

Kako policajac rastjeruje pse, kako stoji iznad nekog smotanog platna, kako u njegovim očima ima nešto strašnije od straha, kako doziva nekog drugog, ozbiljnijeg, nekako čvršćeg, valjda mu nadređenog i kako taj bogara, pljuje u zemlju i viče da se lomi Masarikovom ulicom:

- U jebem ti! Haram je to veliki! Strašna nevolja navuče se na sve nas!

Vidim tog snažnog, ne plače, ali gori je od plača, kako spušta dlanove niz lice, dovikuje odmahujući objema rukama:

- Bacaj to u rijeku. Nek’ nosi. Haram je, puj, jebem ti! I zastanem i gledam, oči mi vide: onaj drugi diže nešto, smotano bijelo platno, malo kao vekna hljeba, trči do mosta, baca, diže ruke, spušta ruke, ne zna gdje bi pa tek onda trči nazad.

Ja još stojim, onaj veći samo trzne pogled prema meni i prođe, onaj drugi stoji, dugo stoji u mjestu, njemu vidim oči, mutnije od vode u koju je bacio.

Zaboravlja se sve, ostaje samo jedan strah: da sam shvatio sve. I duboka želja: da to u zamotuljku nije bilo to. Ali, jeste.

(odlomak iz romana Trag zmajeve šape / Žuti snijeg)