Iskoračio je tog jutra iz svog kontra-kreveta, okrenutog uvis. Setio se da je u kontra-snu video nepregledne kolone ljudi koje su mu hrlile u kontra-pravcu, noseći pisma podrške i ljubavi. Čitajući ih, podsetio se da je vreme da u srpski jezik uvede novi padež — kontrativ. Tako će s manje reči opisivati kontrarevoluciju, trošiti manje papira po glavi stanovnika i ostvariti najefikasniji kontraizdavački poduhvat u skorijoj istoriji. Zaradu od tog poduhvata pokloniće stanovnicima svoje kontra-države.
Umio se hladnom vodom sa kontra-česme, okrenute naopačke. Njegove ruke, uvek spremne za krupni kontra-plan, morale su biti čiste za jutarnje vesti na njegovom Kontragram profilu. Zato koristi svoj lični kontra-sapun koji ne peni spolja, već ka unutra — stvarajući unutrašnji kontrapritisak, da bi, kad pukne, zapenio po narodu i podigao mu kontramoral u borbi za nedavanje ničega što nije njihovo.
Hitro je napravio omiljeni kontra-sendvič, ubacivši parče hleba između dva parčeta parizera, i odjurio dole do garaže na krovu rezidencije. Seo je u leteći auto i u rikverc, žmureći, odvezao se trasom metroa do gradilišta gde je položen kontra-temeljac za krov nove hale. Tamo će se, od parizera, proizvoditi prasići — najveći od doba Jure. Krov je izgrađen u rekordnom roku, pre nego što je započet, a zidovi i temelji planirani su najkasnije do kraja prethodne godine. Novac potrošen na ovaj podvig biće preusmeren najpotrebitijima iz kontra-društva.
Mediji su objavili sadržaj njegovog sutrašnjeg nenajavljenog kontraobraćanja, da bi svi bili spremni da se zapanje i oduševe iznenadnom navalom sudbonosnih kontrainformacija. Tom prilikom, ministar za kontraobaveštavanje izneo je plan da Istočni ambasador sedi na Zapadu, a drugi kontra njemu. Ova zbunjujuća simetrija pomrsiće račune kontraneprijateljima našeg naroda, pa je ministra odmah odlikovao svojim 3D portretom od memorijske pene.
Obišavši mauzolej koji mu je za života podignut u čast, Kontrijarh mu je ponudio pomoć: prikupljaće priloge od kontra-siromašnih kako bi se ulice ukrasile plastičnim cvećem koje su izradili naši kontra-prijatelji sa Istoka.
Poljoprivrednici i poštena inteligencija su kontra-traktorima đubrili njive starim baterijama, kako bi povećali rudno bogatstvo otadžbine i omogućili kontra-prijateljima sa Zapada da unaprede naše krajeve iskopavanjem tih dragocenosti.
Završavajući svoj najuspešniji dan u skorijoj istoriji, spremao se za kontra-počinak. Pravio je spisak novih kontraargumenata protiv zdravog razuma — idejnih stubova nadolazeće kontrarevolucije, koja se već pobednički završila. Budno zaspavši u kontra-krevetu, prebrojavao je nacionalne frekvencije koje još nije pokrio svojim kontra-stvaralaštvom. Ne sme dopustiti da ijedna duša ostane uskraćena za njegov kraljevski kontra-blagoslov.
That morning, he stepped out of his contra-bed—the one facing upward. He remembered dreaming of endless columns of people marching toward him in the opposite direction, carrying letters filled with loyalty and love. As he read them, he realized it was time to introduce a new grammatical case into the Serbian language—the contrative. With fewer words, the contra-revolution could finally be described efficiently, saving paper per citizen and marking the most productive contra-publishing enterprise in recent history. The profits from that glorious effort, naturally, would be donated to the citizens of his contra-state.
He washed his face with cold water from the upside-down contra-tap. His hands—always ready for a close contra-up—had to be spotless before the morning news on his Contragram profile. For that purpose, he used his personal contra-soap—one that foamed not outward but inward, building up internal contra-pressure until, at the right moment, it burst and spread foam among the people, lifting their contra-morale in the fight for keeping everything that wasn’t theirs.
Swiftly, he prepared his favorite contra-sandwich: a slice of bread neatly placed between two slices of bologna. Then he rushed to the garage on the roof of his residence, sat in his flying car, and—eyes closed—drove in reverse along the metro line to the construction site where the contra-cornerstone for the roof of a new hall had been laid. There, from bologna, piglets would soon be produced—the largest since the Jurassic era. The roof had been completed in record time—before construction even began—while the walls and foundations were scheduled for completion no later than the end of the previous year. Funds spent on this achievement would be redirected to the most deserving members of the contra-society.
The media released the content of his tomorrow’s unannounced contra-address, so that everyone could be properly astonished and delighted by the sudden surge of fateful contra-information. On that occasion, the Minister of Contra-Intelligence presented a plan for the Eastern ambassador to sit in the West, and the other one opposite him. This bewildering symmetry would certainly confuse the contra-enemies of the nation, so the minister was immediately decorated with a 3D portrait of the Contra-King made from memory foam.
After visiting the mausoleum built in his honor during his lifetime, the Contra-Bishop offered his assistance: he would collect donations from the contra-poor to decorate the streets with plastic flowers crafted by our contra-friends from the East.
Farmers and honest intellectuals fertilized their fields with old batteries using contra-tractors, enriching the nation’s mineral wealth and allowing our contra-friends from the West to improve our lands by extracting those treasures.
As he concluded the most successful day in recent history, the Contra-King prepared for his contra-rest. He drafted a list of new contra-arguments against common sense—ideological pillars of the forthcoming contra-revolution, which had already been triumphantly completed. Falling wakefully asleep in his contra-bed, he counted the national frequencies still untouched by his contra-creativity. He could not allow a single soul to remain deprived of his royal contra-blessing.
Na terasi rezidencije jutarnji zraci obasjavali su fikus u saksiji. Poklon njegovog visočanstva kontra-kralja. Pogledalo ga je čežnjivo i vratilo se u dnevni boravak. Kontra-kralj je uvek znao da izabere pravi poklon, otkrivajući skrivene talente u svakome kome nešto daruje. Uzdahnulo je duboko, osećajući lični pečat kontra-kralja u svakom molekulu vazduha.
Uključilo je računar da učita poruke iz mesidž boksa. Današnji repertoar bio je prepun duhovitih dosetki o rastu BDP-a, kritike rada komisije za orezivanje gradskog zelenila, važnih napomena o osujećenim neprijateljskim upadima na deponiju nuklearnog otpada — ali i tragičnih izveštaja o nestašici lignji u ribljim restoranima širom zemlje. U donjem delu ekrana prikazana su tri avatara za taj dan. Domalim USB prstom učitalo je u sebe sva tri lica.
Dežurni vozač čekao je mirno dok je ono prolazilo pored drvoreda banana na putu do parkinga. Najednom, dve golubice zalepršaše krilima. Ono se uplaši tog strašnog terorističkog akta koji je opozicija planirala već tri meseca. Telohranitelj hitro upuca dve predatorske ptice i spreči državni udar. Fotografije ovog strašnog događaja — i herojskog čina lojalnog telohranitelja — već su bile u domaloj memoriji, spremne za prezentaciju u holu Komore Kontrastabilnosti na vanrednoj konferenciji za novinara.
Hol je bio čist i veličanstveno prazan. Obožavalo je tu mermernu prazninu — još više usamljeni odjek svojih brižljivo odabranih reči. Uključilo je avatara za duhovito obraćanje. Lice mu se rasteglo u osmeh i poče da objašnjava kako je manje veće, a veće manje. Uz još širi osmeh od mogućeg, podvuklo je da samo neprijatelji naroda ne razumeju tu jednostavnu suštinu rasta BDP-a. Jer, ko se lača mati, u neznanju pati.
Tada novinar postavi pitanje o današnjem terorističkom aktu i da li su svi mrzitelji države uhapšeni. Ono se prenu, zadržavajući osmeh na ušima. Domala memorija se zaglavila. Nikako da učita avatara za tragične vesti. Hop! Evo ga! Zabrinuto lice smrknuto gleda u pod i grize usne. Tišina. Veličanstvena, baš kako kontra-kralj zahteva na svim konferencijama. Čekalo je još malo, uživalo u tišini. Podešavalo je obrve na tačno programiranu visinu i oblik, kako bi izrazilo najdublju zabrinutost. I progovorilo.
Jedna reč. Odjek. Pauza. Druga reč. Odjek. Pauza. Treća reč. Obrva pogrešno reaguje. Ups. Četvrta reč. Uvo se trzne. Peta. Odjek se vraća još jači, pomera kosu na čelo. Nos pada na donju usnu, jedan kraj razvlači se u osmeh. Završna reč zahvalnosti prisutnima.
Novinar se takođe zahvalio i pohvalio konferencije za novinara kao pravi primer demokratije i tolerancije, gde se mogu čuti različita mišljenja u dostojanstvenoj diskusiji. Okrenuo se i otišao da pripremi izveštaj za večerašnji Kontra-dnevnik.
Ono je ostalo samo u praznom holu Komore Kontrastabilnosti. Mora da ode u servis. Domala memorija potpuno je zakazala. Sad liči na daždevnjaka — sledeću konferenciju ne sme dočekati u takvom stanju. Rejting gledanosti bi opao. A kontra-kralj to ne oprašta. Napustilo je prostoriju odsečnim pačjim hodom, dok se elektronska zastava viorila na ogromnom ekranu. Primetilo je tri mrtva piksela. Brat će to da sredi. Brat sve zna. Sva braća sve znaju. I sve mogu.
U rezidenciji, na stolu u foajeu, već je stajao reparacioni set za popravku domale memorije. Sa strane, u graviranoj drvenoj kutiji, bio je disk sa novim izdanjem Rečnika Tatice Mrske. Briljiraće na sledećoj konferenciji za novinara. Obrazi su mu se zarumeneli. Kontra-kralj će biti srećan.
On the terrace of the residence, the morning rays shone upon a potted ficus—a gift from His Majesty, the Contra-King. It looked at it longingly and went back into the living room. The Contra-King always knew how to choose the perfect gift, revealing hidden talents in everyone he bestowed something upon. It sighed deeply, sensing the royal imprint of the Contra-King in every molecule of air.
It turned on the computer to load messages from the mess-box. Today’s repertoire was filled with witty remarks about GDP growth, sharp critiques of the city’s tree-pruning committee, important notes on foiled enemy infiltrations at the nuclear-waste dump—and tragic reports about the shortage of squid in seafood restaurants across the country. At the bottom of the screen, three avatars for the day appeared. With its ring-USB finger, it loaded all three faces into itself.
The duty driver waited patiently as it walked along the avenue of banana trees toward the parking lot. Suddenly, two doves flapped their wings. It panicked—a horrifying terrorist act, clearly planned for months by the opposition. The bodyguard swiftly shot the two predatory birds and prevented a coup d’état. Photos of this dreadful event—and of the heroic act of the loyal bodyguard—were already in its ring-memory, ready to be presented in the Hall of Contra-Stability at the emergency press conference.
The hall was clean and magnificently empty. It adored that marble emptiness—and even more, the lonely echo of its carefully chosen words. It activated the avatar for humorous addressing. Its face stretched into a smile and began to explain how less was more, and more was less. With an even wider smile than possible, it underlined that only enemies of the people failed to grasp that simple essence of GDP growth. For those who slive by the word… dye by the sword.
Then a journalist asked about today’s terrorist act and whether all haters of the state had been arrested. It froze, keeping the smile pinned to its ears. The ring-memory jammed. It couldn’t load the avatar for tragic news. Hop! There it was! A worried face looked down and bit its lips. Silence. Majestic, just as the Contra-King demanded at every conference. It waited a little longer, savoring the silence. Adjusted its eyebrows to the precisely programmed height and angle to express the deepest concern. And spoke.
One word. Echo. Pause. Second word. Echo. Pause. Third word. An eyebrow misfired. Oops. Fourth word. An ear twitched. Fifth. The echo returned stronger, moving the hair across its forehead. The nose fell onto the lower lip, one corner stretching into a smile. A closing word of gratitude to those present.
The journalist also gave thanks and praised the press conferences as true examples of democracy and tolerance—where different opinions could be heard in dignified discussion. He turned and left to prepare the report for the evening Contra-News.
It remained alone in the empty Hall of Contra-Stability. It had to go to service. The ring-memory had completely failed. It now resembled a salamander—and must not appear at the next conference in such a state. Viewer ratings would drop. And the Contra-King does not forgive that. It left the hall with a firm, waddling step while the electronic flag waved on the massive screen. It noticed three dead pixels. Brother would fix that. Brother knows everything. All brothers know everything. And can do everything.
Back in the residence, on the table in the foyer, a repair kit for the ring-memory was already waiting. On the side, in an engraved wooden box, lay a disc with the new edition of The Dictionary of Father Grim. It would shine at the next press conference. Its cheeks blushed. The Contra-King would be pleased.
ili: Kako sam naučio da prestanem da brinem i zavoleo bateriju
Nebo iznad grada B-11 bilo je boje televizijskog ekrana, uključenog na prazan kanal. Poslednje tri generacije verovatno ne bi razumele ovu rečenicu, ali T ju je razumeo, iako mlad. Upravo je gledao istu tu sliku sopstvenim očima. U starom telefonu njegovog dede ostali su enkriptovani fajlovi koje Kontra-služba nije uspela da dekodira. Knjige iz XX veka. T je pročitao mnoge od njih. Da li da bi bolje upoznao dedu kog je odavno izgubio, ili zato što su ga zaista zaintrigirale — teško je reći.
Bila je gotovo ponoć. Žurio je da stigne poslednji elektrobus za blokove, pre nego što sitna kiša preraste u kiseli pljusak. Na raskrsnici je zatekao grupu ljudi kako blokira saobraćaj. Unuci nekadašnjih pobunjenika. Tražili su pravdu za šesnaestoro nevinih koji su stradali u vreme koje se više ne pominje. Malo ko je znao išta o tim nesrećnim ljudima. Za većinu su to bila samo davno zaboravljena tela. Još manje se znalo šta se tačno dogodilo. Svakodnevne vesti o poginulima u istočnim i zapadnim rudarskim zonama učinile su narod neosetljivim na tragedije — a još više na sećanja.
Nosili su transparente s imenima i prezimenima. Tada su ljudi još uvek imali imena. I prezimena. Dobijali su ih od roditelja. Kontra-služba je dvaput godišnje, nedeljom uveče na kraju svakog fiskalnog semestra, dozvoljavala da se raskrsnica blokira pred ponoć. Tačno šesnaest minuta. T je prošao pored njih pognute glave. Pomislio je, uprkos svemu, kako je ipak u boljoj poziciji od radnika iz rudarskih zona ZA i BO.
T — tehničar broj 36, zona rudnika uglja KO.
Ugalj se odavno ne koristi u zemlji. Od kada se elektroenergetski sistem raspao tridesetih, termoelektrane su zatvorene, a sve je prešlo na baterije. Ugalj se izvozi u jugoistočnu Aziju, pa nema mnogo pritiska na tehničare. Jedan deo se krijumčari na domaće tržište za grejanje, jer je baterijsko grejanje preskupo. To je bila prilika i za T da dodatno zarađuje.
Najgore su prolazili oni iz zone JA — litijum. Iskopavanje i prečišćavanje. Posle pet-šest godina bivali bi penzionisani, i zamenjivani drugima. Mada ih posle penzionisanja niko nikada nije video. Tamo se nije išlo dobrovoljno. Kontra-služba je vršila preraspodelu ljudskih resursa. T je poznavao neke koji su tamo završili. Stanovali su blizu njega. Nakratko. Nije im zavideo.
Dron ga je pratio dok se udaljavao od raskrsnice. Standardna procedura. Kontra-služba nadzire svaki pokret i presreće svaku komunikaciju. T je želeo da radi za njih. Barem da upravlja dronom. Ili da održava informacione sisteme. Bio bi to lakši život. Ali poreklo ga je zakucalo za rudarske zone. Deda mu je bio disident. A toga se nije mogao osloboditi. Ipak, bolje je biti T nego R. R silazi u rudnik. T ostaje na površini. Servisira. Švercuje.
Na kiosku je kupio večeru za poneti: argentinski pasulj u sosu od vijetnamskog paradajza. Dron je odzujao nazad.
Stajalište je bilo krcato. Ljudi su se tiskali pod nadstrešnicom — kisela kiša prelazila je u pljusak. T je računao da njegova skupa kabanica može izdržati barem pola sata, pa se nije gurao. Nije voleo gužvu. Posmatrao je lica osvetljena malim ekranima. Niko nikog nije gledao. Čuo je svaku kap kiše. Bio je sam. I sa tim ljudima nije mogao razmeniti ni pogled.
Stigao je elektrobus. Prevoz do blokova uglavnom je trajao dva sata. Oko ponoći, kad se radne grupe vraćaju na spavanje, stvarala se najveća gužva na jedinom preostalom mostu preko reke. Uspeo je da sedne. Hteo je malo da odspava. Treba ustati sutra u pet. Naslonio je glavu na vlažno staklo i gledao zamućene svetleće solitere u kojima žive ljudi iz Kontra-službe. Mogao sam biti tamo, pomislio je.
Mislio je na dedu. Jedino blisko biće koje je imao u životu. Knjige u starom telefonu bile su njegovo jedino nasleđe. Zabranjeno nasleđe.
Zaspao je s dedinim glasom u glavi.
T nije znao da mu je san prekinut. Eksplozijom. Elektrobus je planuo. Jeftine baterije nisu izdržale ni planiranih hiljadu punjenja. Vatrena stihija progutala je vozilo i sve u njemu. Kisela kiša otapala je ostatke metala i mesa, sve dok voda nije odnela poslednje tragove u slivnik.
or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Battery
The sky above City B-11 was the colour of television, tuned to a dead channel. The last three generations would probably not understand that sentence—but T did, even though he was young. He was looking at the same image with his own eyes. Inside his grandfather’s old phone remained encrypted files the Contra-Intelligence had never managed to decode. Books from the twentieth century. He had read many of them—whether to know the grandfather he had long lost, or because they truly intrigued him, no one could say.
It was almost midnight. Hurrying to catch the last electrobus to the blocks, before the drizzle turned to acid rain, he reached the intersection where a group of people blocked the traffic—grandchildren of former rebels. They demanded justice for sixteen innocents who had perished in a time no longer mentioned. Few knew anything about those unlucky souls. For most, they were just forgotten bodies. Even fewer knew what had really happened. Daily reports of deaths in the eastern and western mining zones had made the people numb to tragedy—and even more to memory.
They carried banners with names and surnames. Back then, people still had names. And surnames. They received them from their parents. Twice a year, on Sunday nights at the end of each fiscal semester, the Contra-Intelligence allowed the intersection to be blocked—for exactly sixteen minutes. T walked past them, head bowed, thinking—despite everything—that he was still in a better position than the workers in zones ZA and BO.
T—technician 36, coal zone KO.
Coal had long ceased to be used in the country. Since the energy system collapsed in the thirties, thermal plants had been shut down and everything switched to batteries. Coal was exported to Southeast Asia, leaving little pressure on technicians. Some of it was smuggled onto the local market for heating, since battery heat was too expensive. That was a chance for T to earn a little extra.
Those from zone JA—lithium—had it the worst. Excavation and purification. After five or six years they were “retired” and replaced by others, though none were ever seen again. No one went there by choice. The Contra-Intelligence managed the redistribution of human resources. He had known a few who’d ended up there. They’d lived near him. Briefly. He never envied them.
A drone tailed him as he left the intersection—standard procedure. The Contra-Intelligence monitored every move, intercepted every message. Working for them was his quiet dream: maybe piloting drones, maybe maintaining their systems—a softer life. But his origin had anchored him to the mining zones. His grandfather had been a dissident. That was something one never escaped. Better T than R, anyway. R went underground. T stayed on the surface. Servicing. Smuggling.
At a kiosk, dinner waited in sealed trays—Argentinian beans in Vietnamese tomato sauce. The drone buzzed away.
The bus stop overflowed. People huddled under the shelter while the acid drizzle thickened into a downpour. His expensive raincoat could last at least half an hour, so he didn’t push his way in. He disliked crowds. Faces glowed in the light of small screens; no one looked at anyone. Each drop of rain sounded clear in his ears. Alone—even among people—he couldn’t exchange a single glance.
The electrobus arrived. The ride to the blocks usually took two hours. Around midnight, when the work groups returned to their sleeping quarters, the bridge—the only one left across the river—was jammed. Finding a seat, he closed his eyes. Wanted a little sleep. Had to get up at five tomorrow. Leaning his head against the wet glass, he watched the blurred towers glowing in the distance, where people from the Contra-Intelligence lived. I could’ve been there, he thought.
His thoughts drifted to his grandfather—the only close being he’d ever had. The books in that old phone were his only inheritance. A forbidden inheritance.
Sleep took him, with his grandfather’s voice still echoing in his head.
He never knew the dream was interrupted—by an explosion. The electrobus burst into flames. Cheap batteries hadn’t lasted even their planned thousand charges. The blaze consumed the vehicle and everything inside. Acid rain washed over the wreckage, dissolving metal and flesh until the water carried the last traces into the drain.
Uskoro će izbori! – zagrmela je reklama. Tačnije, izbori će biti za šest godina, ali pripreme su uveliko u toku. Filip je nespretno pokušavao da utiša zvuk i skloni to s ekrana.
Imao je predavanja u srednjoj školi o demokratiji. Bilo je to dosta šturo, sećao se. Više reda radi, da se formalno obradi tema. Ipak, uprkos svedenim nastavnim programima, nastavnica im je pričala da se u demokratijama izbori dešavaju često. Filip, sa svojih trideset, nije se sećao da je ikada bilo izbora. A živelo se u demokratiji. Tako su govorili na kontra-dnevniku.
Prekipelo mleko ispunilo je stan mirisom zagorelog. Otvorio je prozor. Vazduh napolju bio je još gori. Pogledao je u daljinu — kao da će rešenje doleteti s vetrom. Razočaran sobom, zatvorio je prozor i pospremio haos u kuhinji. Onda je izašao.
Drug ga je čekao u prizemlju bloka da krenu na posao. Toma nije išao u školu. Nijednu. Nisu bile obavezne, ni osnovna ni srednja. Njegovi su smatrali da je to gubljenje vremena, da se ionako ništa tamo ne može naučiti. Za posao je bilo bitno da znaš nešto da radiš i da budeš dobar u tome. Zato je, govorili su, bolje početi što ranije.
– Gde si do sada? – Pokvarila mi se mikrotalasna. Podgrevao sam hranu na nekom raspalom rešou. – Skinuće nam bodove ako zakasnimo. Znaš da druga smena… – Znam! Smaraš! – prekinu ga Filip i odmahnu rukom.
Elektrobus je dozujao. Preskočili su noge čoveka koji je spavao na stajalištu i ušli. Druga smena je radila bez prisustva visokog rukovodstva. Tada se odgovornost prenosila na odabrane radnike. Filip i Toma su bili među njima. Privilegije iz toga nisu proisticale — samo pojačana represija i kazne ako stvari krenu po zlu. Nadati se napredovanju bilo je uzaludno. Nemoguće. Za to je bila potrebna visoka stručna sprema, a ona se mogla steći samo u inostranstvu.
– Misliš i dalje o njoj?
Filip ne odgovara.
– Ma daj! Ona ti je bila niko i ništa. Što te to toliko muči?
Filip je ćutao. Stradala je pre tri godine. U drugoj smeni. Nije bila njena greška. U izveštaju za Kontra-službu morao se navesti krivac — ili radnik, ili odabrani. Kazna za odabranog značila bi oduzimanje toliko bodova da tog meseca ne bi imao ni za struju ni za vodu. Toma ga je podržao. Napisali su izveštaj da je nastradala radnica napravila propust. Kontra-služba ih je pohvalila. Sistem je bio besprekoran.
Od tog dana se povukao u sebe. Progovorio bi tu i tamo, retko. Radio je predano i izbegavao razgovore na pauzama. Ljudi su ga smatrali mrzovoljnim, ali su ga cenili zbog marljivosti. Filipa to nije doticalo. Imao je svoj svet. Svet teskobe.
Toma ga nije mnogo gnjavio. Živeli su u istom bloku, radili u istom sektoru, i sporazumevali se dobro uz minimum reči. Poštovao je Filipovu zatvorenost, mada je savest doživljavao kao dosadnu muvu koja pored svih ljudi uporno sleće baš na tvoje čelo. Što je pre spljeskaš, to ćeš ranije naći mir. Toma je verovao u svoje dve ruke i u izbegavanje svih nevolja.
Sveže asfaltirani put činio je vožnju naročito ugodnom. Bus je jezdio glatko. Ljudi su voleli nov asfalt. Njegov miris, tamna boja s upadljivo belim linijama, ujednačena površina — izazivali su prava ushićenja. Svaki metar više novog asfalta omogućio bi jednoj duši više da spozna istinsku radost. Zato je vlast, za dobrobit građana, obnavljala sve puteve na svakih šest meseci.
Filip je tog dana spremao pogon i iznosio otpad iz hale. Na deponiji, tokom istovara, primetio je nekakvu dokumentaciju — što je bilo neuobičajeno. Neko iz rukovodstva, verovatno u žurbi, zaboravio je da je uništi. Osvrtao se oko sebe misleći da je podvala. Podigao je fasciklu i rukom otresao prašinu. Otvorio je da pročita.
Uprava je morala da smanji broj zaposlenih zbog nedostatka sredstava. Kako je zvaničan stav Kontra-službe da u državi nema otpuštanja, niti nezaposlenosti, Uprava je isplanirala da u nameštenom procesu optuži jednu grupu radnika za sabotažu. Nekima je pretila smrtna kazna, a nekima doživotna robija. Time će se problem povoljno rešiti i za Upravu i za Kontra-službu.
Filip zadrhta i zatvori fasciklu. Ubacio je u svoj utovarivač i krenuo nazad.
– Spali te papire, jesi lud da to držiš kod sebe! – Tomo, jesi li ti svestan šta oni hoće da urade? – Ma jesam, druže, ali ti i ja nemamo ništa s tim. Neko će uvek biti žrtva za ove gore. Treba samo ostati čitav do kraja. – Kakvog kraja? Šta pričaš? Kraja čega? Ništa ovde nema kraj osim nas!
Filip se vrteo u krug po sobi. Da prijavi Kontra-službi nije imalo smisla. Uprava ih finansira. Da pošalje kontra-dnevniku — neće to objaviti. Dok se osvrne, uhapsiće ga. Kako da pomogne tim nesrećnicima? Još jedno svoje sakrivanje nije mogao da podnese. Toma je sedeo s glavom u rukama i dlanovima cedio kosu unazad.
– Preteruješ, Filipe. Znaš i sam da ništa ne možeš da promeniš. Oni imaju sve, ti nemaš ništa. – Ljudi moraju da znaju šta se dešava! Ko zna koliko puta se ovo dešavalo, a mi nismo znali!
Filip uze olovku i poče mahnito da piše po poleđinama onih papira. Zgrabio je sve listove i istrčao iz stana. Toma krenu dole za njim, ali Filip je otišao gore — na krov zgrade. Sa najviše tačke bacao je papire. Vetar ga je slušao i raznosio ih po terasama i prozorima, po trotoarima i crnom asfaltu.
I Kontra-služba ga je slušala. I brzo reagovala.
Iako njegove oči više nikada neće videti svetlost dana, u krvotoku je osetio toplinu slobode. Osetio je bliskost sa svim ljudima koji su nekad bili, i sa onima kojih više neće biti. Na licu mu se pojavio osmeh — prvi put u životu.
“Elections are coming soon!” the advertisement roared. More precisely, elections would be held in six years, but preparations were already underway. Philip clumsily tried to mute the sound and clear the screen.
He’d had classes on democracy back in high school. It had been brief, he remembered—more a formality than a lesson. Still, despite the trimmed curriculum, their teacher had told them that in democracies, elections happened often. Philip, now thirty, couldn’t recall a single one ever taking place. And yet, they lived in a democracy. That’s what they said on the Contra-news.
Boiled milk overflowed, filling the apartment with the smell of burnt residue. He opened the window. The air outside was even worse. He looked into the distance—as if an answer might arrive with the wind. Disappointed in himself, he closed the window, cleaned up the mess, and went out.
His friend was waiting at the entrance of the building to go to work. Thomas had never gone to school. None were mandatory—not primary, not secondary. His parents believed school was a waste of time, that there was nothing useful to learn there anyway. For work, it was enough to know how to do something—and to do it well. So, they said, the earlier you start, the better.
“Where have you been?” “My microwave broke. I was heating food on some rusty old burner.” “They’ll dock our points if we’re late. You know the second shift…” “I know! You’re annoying!” Philip cut him off and waved his hand.
The electrobus hummed up. They stepped over the legs of a man sleeping at the stop and boarded. The second shift worked without upper management. Responsibility was transferred to the selected workers. Philip and Thomas were among them. No privileges came with that—only increased repression and punishment if things went wrong. Hoping for promotion was pointless. Impossible. For that, one needed higher education—which could only be obtained abroad.
“Still thinking about her?”
Philip said nothing.
“Come on. She was nobody. Why does it bother you so much?”
He remained silent. She’d died three years ago. During the second shift. It hadn’t been her fault. The report for the Contra-service had to name someone guilty—either a worker or one of the selected. A penalty for the selected would mean losing so many points that by the end of the month there’d be neither electricity nor water. Thomas supported him. They wrote that the deceased worker had made an error. The Contra-service praised them. The system was flawless.
From that day, he withdrew into himself. Spoke rarely. Worked diligently and avoided conversations during breaks. People thought him moody, but respected his diligence. It didn’t matter. He had his own world—a world of dread.
Thomas didn’t bother him much. They lived in the same block, worked in the same sector, and understood each other with minimal words. He respected Philip’s silence, though he saw conscience as a nagging fly that—out of all people—insists on landing on your forehead. The sooner you squash it, the sooner you’ll find peace. Thomas believed in his two hands and in avoiding all trouble.
The freshly paved road made the ride unusually smooth. The bus glided forward. People loved new asphalt—its smell, its dark color with sharply white lines, its flawless surface. Every meter more of new asphalt allowed one more soul to experience true joy. That’s why the government, for the good of its citizens, repaved every road every six months.
That day, Philip was cleaning the plant and taking out waste from the hall. At the landfill, during unloading, he noticed some documents—which was unusual. Someone from management had likely forgotten to destroy them in haste. He looked around, thinking it might be a setup. Picked up the folder and brushed off the dust. Opened it to read.
Management had to reduce the number of employees due to lack of funds. Since the official stance of the Contra-service was that there were no layoffs, nor unemployment in the state, Management planned to accuse a group of workers of sabotage in a fabricated process. Some would face the death penalty, others life imprisonment. Thus the problem would be conveniently resolved—both for Management and for the Contra-service.
Philip trembled and closed the folder. Put it in his loader and headed back.
“Burn those papers! Are you crazy to keep them?” “Thomas, do you even realize what they’re planning to do?” “Sure I do, man, but it’s got nothing to do with us. There’ll always be someone sacrificed for the ones above. You just have to make it to the end in one piece.” “The end? What end? What are you talking about? There’s no end here—except us!”
He paced the room in circles. Reporting to the Contra-service made no sense—they financed Management. Sending it to the Contra-news wouldn’t help—they wouldn’t publish it. Before long, they’d arrest him. How could he help those poor souls? He couldn’t bear another act of hiding. Thomas sat, head in hands, dragging his fingers through his hair.
“You’re overreacting, Philip. You know you can’t change anything. They’ve got everything; you’ve got nothing.” “People have to know what’s happening! Who knows how many times this has happened—and we never knew!”
He grabbed a pen and began scribbling frantically on the backs of those papers. Gathered the sheets and ran out of the apartment. Thomas ran down after him, but Philip went up—to the roof. From the highest point, he threw the papers. The wind obeyed him, scattering them across balconies and windows, across sidewalks and the black asphalt.
And the Contra-service heard him too. And reacted swiftly.
Though his eyes would never again see the light of day, warmth of freedom pulsed through his veins. He felt closeness with all those who once were, and with those who would be no more. A smile appeared on his face—for the first time in his life.
Upravo su izašli iz Narodnog pozorišta. On je nosio glatko negužvajuće odelo, a ona sveže ugrađeni negužvajući silikon. Gledali su predstavu bele tehnike poznatog regionalnog ansambla.
– Baš mi se dopala predstava – uzdahnula je. – Sad konačno sve ima smisla. – M-da. Kupićemo onaj frižider iz drugog čina. – A kad je on iz njega izašao… Sva sam se bila naježila! – Video sam. Biće još sjajnih predstava. Ovi novi ljudi u pozorištu razvaljuju kako su dobri.
Na putu do Ruskog cara naišli su na izložbu aparata za kafu. Ona je htela, ali gužva je bila prevelika. On je postajao nestrpljiv i počeo da negoduje. Skrenuli su u Čika Ljubinu i produžili prema fontani. Ispod svoda hotela Filos, tik uz crni mermerni stub, čovek je pekao kestenje na vatri. Miris se širio vlažnim vazduhom.
– Aj duzmemo malo, baš gotivno miriše! – povukla ga je za rukav.
Čovek je neumorno prevrtao kestenje, kao da negde žuri. Na rukama je imao rukavice s odsečenim prstima. Pogledao je par koji mu prilazi.
– Izvolite. – Daj nam za trideset – rekla je. – Hoćete li odmah da jedete, ili da vam spakujem? – Oćemo odma da jedemo. Mi sve radimo odma! – počela je glasno da se smeje.
Čovek pravi fišeke i sipa kestenje u njih.
– El ti radiš ovo za egzitenziju? – Kaže se egzistenciju. – Otkud ti znaš kako se kaže?! Ko si bre ti?
Čovek im pruži fišeke i dodirnu im poglede. Dok se par udaljavao, ugasio je žar peskom iz plastične flaše i spakovao stvari u vrećicu. Zastao je kod spomenika u Njegovu čast i pogledao u treći prozor s desne strane iznad svoda. Poznata prostorija. Pogled mu se brzo zamutio. Krenuo je preko Sueckog trga, pa pored Etnografskog, niz ulicu. Hodao je oprezno jer su glatki đonovi klizili preko kaldrme. Na sledećem ćošku zaustavile su ga dve uniforme.
– Šta nosiš u tome? – Kestenje i papir. – Kakav papir? Neki tekstovi? – Ne, to je za uvijanje kestenja. – Pretresi ga, kolega! – Nemam ništa. Samo šibice – i podiže ruke u vis.
Druga uniforma ga je pretresala, tražeći bilo kakav trag pisane reči. Naposletku ga pustiše. Čovek krenu dalje, nameštajući izvrnute džepove. Vetar je doneo dim roštilja. I bol u stomaku.
Stigao je do pasarele. Ljudi su je i dalje koristili, iako vozovi odavno ne postoje. Pruga je ostala. Na drugoj strani bilo je nekoliko zgrada, ali čovek se okrenuo i pošao neosvetljenom šinom. Brojao je u sebi. Sagnuo se i ispod jednog praga izvukao omanju knjigu. Poljubio je i stavio u džep. Do napuštene stanice nije mu trebalo još mnogo.
Unutra, u jednoj prostoriji sa izvaljenim prozorima, bilo je ćebe, uljana lampa i zec.
– Zdravo, Marko – reče čovek zecu.
Zecu je zadrhtala njuška. Prišao je ruci s kestenjem. Zajedno su jeli. Čovek upali lampu i uze knjigu.
– Da vidimo šta još kaže tvoj imenjak samom sebi. Slušaš li?
Zec podignu uši i umiri se.
– „Ne dozvoli da tvoja duša postane ropkinja nečijeg neznanja, tuđeg mišljenja ili onoga što se zbiva izvan tebe.“
Čovek je čitao naglas, a zec je sedeo i netremice ga slušao. Mesec je prošao pola svoda. Kad je lampa utihnula, čovek se zamota u ćebe i sklupča se za počinak.
Zec je sišao do pruge. Osluškivao je. Sledio je trag. Čekao znak.
Krenuo je prema tvrđavi, gde je nekada bio zoološki vrt. Iz pravca Ratnog ostrva prilazilo je još životinja. Bilo ih je sve više i više. Otkako su reke presušile, mogle su slobodno da pređu na bilo koju obalu.
Na proplanku, gde su nekada živeli lavovi, sabralo ih se na hiljade. Mačke, psi, veverice, rakuni, sove, lasice… Žamor je bivao sve glasniji dok se nije pretvorio u neprekidno brujanje. Izgledalo je pod mesecom kao da zemlja ključa. Odjednom nastade muk. Tišina.
Marko skoči na zid. Obuhvati ih pogledom, uspravi se i glasno reče:
– „Ako je nešto pravedno — ne boj se da to i uradiš. Ako ćeš umreti čineći pravdu, neka to bude kraj koji si zaslužio!“
Vazduh je zaparao zvuk lokomotive koja se velikom brzinom približavala gradu.
They had just left the National Theatre. He wore a wrinkle-free suit, and she, freshly implanted wrinkle-free silicone. They’d watched a play about home appliances, performed by a renowned regional ensemble.
“I really liked the play,” she sighed. “Now everything finally makes sense.” “Yeah. We’ll buy that fridge from the second act.” “And when he came out of it… I got goosebumps all over!” “I saw that. There’ll be more great shows. The new people at the theatre are killing it.”
On their way to the Russian Tsar, they stumbled upon an exhibition of coffee machines. She wanted to go in, but the crowd was too big. He was getting impatient, starting to complain. They turned into Čika Ljubina Street and headed toward the fountain. Under the arch of the Filos Hotel, next to a black marble pillar, a man was roasting chestnuts over a fire. The smell spread through the damp air.
“Hey, let’s grab some, smells awesome!” she tugged his sleeve.
The man was turning the chestnuts tirelessly, as if in a hurry. He wore fingerless gloves. He looked up as the couple approached.
“Good evening.” “Give us thirty worth,” she said. “Will you eat them now or should I pack them?” “Now, of course! We do everything right now!” she burst into laughter.
The man made paper cones and poured the chestnuts into them.
“So, you do this for… exsistension?” “It’s pronounced existence.” “How do you even know that?! Who the hell are you?”
The man handed them the cones and their eyes met for a moment. As the couple walked away, he doused the embers with sand from a plastic bottle and packed his things into a bag. He stopped by the monument in His honor and looked up at the third window on the right above the arch. A familiar room. His eyes blurred quickly. He crossed Suez Square, passed the Ethnographic Museum, and walked downhill. He moved carefully—the smooth soles of his shoes slipped on the cobblestones. At the next corner, two uniforms stopped him.
“What’s in the bag?” “Chestnuts and paper.” “What kind of paper? Some writings?” “No, just wrapping paper.” “Search him, mate.” “I have nothing. Just matches,” he said, raising his hands.
The second uniform frisked him, searching for any trace of written words. Finally, they let him go. He walked on, fixing his turned-out pockets. The wind brought the smell of grilled meat. And a sharp pain in his stomach.
He reached the overpass. People still used it, even though trains hadn’t run for years. The tracks remained. There were a few buildings on the other side, but he turned and followed the unlit rail instead. He counted his steps. Bent down and pulled out a small book from under one of the sleepers. He kissed it and slipped it into his pocket. The abandoned station wasn’t far now.
Inside one of the rooms with broken windows, there was a blanket, an oil lamp, and a rabbit.
“Hello, Marcus,” the man said to the rabbit.
The rabbit’s nose trembled. It came closer to the hand holding chestnuts. They ate together. The man lit the lamp and took out the book.
“Let’s see what your namesake tells himself this time. Listening?”
The rabbit raised its ears and froze.
“Do not let your soul become the slave of someone else’s ignorance, opinion, or what happens outside of you.”
The man read aloud, and the rabbit sat still, listening. The moon had crossed half the sky. When the lamp went silent, he wrapped himself in the blanket and curled up to sleep.
The rabbit went down to the tracks. It listened. Followed the trace. Waited for a sign.
It headed toward the fortress, where the zoo used to be. From the direction of War Island came more animals. There were more and more of them. Since the rivers had dried up, they could cross to any shore.
On the meadow where lions once lived, thousands had gathered—cats, dogs, squirrels, raccoons, owls, weasels… The murmur grew louder until it turned into a steady hum. Under the moonlight, it looked as if the earth itself was boiling. Then—silence.
Marcus jumped onto the wall, looked around, straightened up, and shouted:
“If something is just, do not be afraid to do it. If you die doing justice, let that be the end you deserve!”
The air was pierced by the sound of a locomotive rushing toward the city.
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