Slađana Nina Perković
SPECIAL MENTION
SPECIAL MENTION
Biography
Sladjana Nina Perkovic (1981) is a Franco-Bosnian journalist and a fiction writer. After finishing her studies in Political Sciences at the University of Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne, she mainly worked as a news correspondent for media outlets in ex-Yugoslavia. Her work has also been featured in many European news outlets such as The Guardian. Today, Sladjana is mostly committed to her writing career. She has published a collection of short stories Kuhanje (Cooking) and the novel U jarku (In the Ditch). U jarku was listed for the 2021 NIN Award and the “Meša Selimović” Award. She lives, works, and writes in between Banja Luka and Paris.
Nominated book : U jarku (In the ditch)
Summary
When the heroine’s / narrator’s mother runs into her room, interrupting the daughter watching her favourite crime series, the readers begin to discover the almost insane and chaotic world of the story made up of events such as the funeral of Aunt Stana, who chokes on a piece of chicken, shattering plans to sell the family home and land. The fictional world is filled with unusual visits to police stations and clinics, heroes who unsuccessfully attempt suicide, and those who erect monuments for themselves before they have died, or experience a personal renaissance after deciding to enter the world of smuggling. With each new page, Slađana Nina Perković creates a unique novelistic world built on the display of everyday life, only that everyday life, expressed in extremely sharp language and with a dose of black humour, is moved almost to the limits of absurdity and grotesque. One funeral and sale of a family home and land, the events almost automatically perceived as tragic or shocking, are transformed into the ridiculous that does not ignore tragedy and reality, but helps us understand a more complete picture of the world we inhabit.
Excerpts
Morala sam prepješačiti pola grada. Račune za stan, znate ono, struja, odvoz smeća, grijanje, kablovska i tome slično, inače, plaćamo u banci u našem naselju, ali njima je pao sistem ili tako nešto, pa su me uputili u njihovu centralu u drugom dijelu grada. I tako, otišla sam u drugi dio grada, ušla u banku, a tamo je bilo više ljudi nego na stadionu u toku finala Svjetskog fudbalskog prvenstva. Da muka bude još veća, od sedam šaltera, radila su tek tri, a ljudi su se toliko gurali da se više nije znalo gdje počinje, a gdje završava red. Pokvario im se aparat za izdavanje rednih brojeva, onaj na kojem počiva civilizacija, pa je nastao pravi krkljanac. Ljudi su jedni drugima disali za vratom i psovali tiho, ali sa puno mržnje. „Ja sam troje djece rodila, radila sam do zadnjeg dana sa stomakom do zuba, a ove današnje gospođe ne mogu ništa”, pištala je žena sa visoko natapiranim šiškama kada smo preko reda pustili trudnicu. A onda je druga potpuno sišla sa živaca kada je vidjela da preko rada puštaju čak i jednog čovjeka u invalidskim kolicima. „Pa on je u kolicima, sjedi, šta ga imate puštati! Gore je meni, imam proširene vene!” Ljudi su se uskomešali, umalo da izbije tuča, ali onda se pojavio ćelavi lik iz obezbjeđenja i nazivajući nas otvoreno i bez ustezanja „nekulturnom stokom”, razdijelio nas je u dva reda, jer je treći šalter u međuvremenu prestao raditi. Službenica je, pretpostavljam, otišla na zasluženu pauzu. Naravno, mene je dopalo da čekam u redu koji daleko sporije napreduje. U jednom trenutku sam se sjetila onog crtanog filma u kome Gustav radi za šalterom, a ispod stola drži čašu crnog vina, pa svaki put prvo umoči prst u vino, obliže ga i prevrne stranicu. Pomislila sam kako je velika vjerovatnoća da to isto rade i ove službenice i usta su mi se razvukla u blesavi osmijeh. Međutim, osmijesi u redu za plaćanje računa su tako neprirodna i sumnjiva stvar da me lik iz obezbjeđenja, onaj isti ćelavi, pogledao ispod oka u fazonu „šta se ti, mala, koji klinac, smiješ”, te mi se u momentu izbrisao i najmanji trag osmijeha na licu. Nakon toga sam samo čekala i otpuhivala kao sav normalan narod. Kada je konačno došao moj red i službenica mi halapljivo istrgnula novac iz ruku, osjetila sam se srećno i zadovoljno. Tortura je završena. Slobodna sam, bar do sljedećeg mjeseca.
Napolju me je dočekala kiša. Nisam imala kišobran, mada mi nije bilo jasno kako sam ga mogla zaboraviti. Posljednja dva mjeseca kiša je uporno padala svaki ubogi dan. Kišobrani su nam postali produženi dio ruke. Uglavnom, kada sam konačno stigla kući, bila sam mokra od glave do pete. Čak su mi se i gležnjarice promočile. Okrenula sam lagano ključ u bravi i uvukla se u hodnik. Iz kuhinje je dopirao zvuk pretis lonca, mama je kuhala grah i nije me čula. Lagano sam izula gležnjarice, svukla sasvim mokre čarape i na prstima se ušunjala u svoju sobu. Stavila sam čarape na radijator da se suše, mada nije bilo grijanja, jer je, kao i obično, gradska kotlovnica bila u kvaru, uvukla se ispod jorgana i upalila TV. Moji su nedavno, u ogromnom tržnom centru koji je nikao na mjestu tatine bivše, da ne kažem pokojne, fabrike, kupili na 250 hiljada mjesečnih rata novi TV sa ekranom od 40 inča, a ja sam naslijedila njihov stari, koji uopšte nije tako loš. Da stvar bude još bolja, stigla sam na vrijeme. Taman je počinjala moja omiljena kriminalistička serija.
Ima sigurno tri godine kako nemam volje da radim bilo šta drugo nego da ležim u krevetu i gledam kriminalističke serije. Ne znam kako drugačije da opišem to stanje, osim da je moj organizam jednostavno utonuo u stanje opšte bezvoljnosti. Moj tip, a bili smo baš dugo zajedno, znate ono od drugog razreda srednje, dobio je garantno pismo od tetke iz Sidneja i odselio se kod nje. Ideja je bila da mi sredi papire, pa da i ja odem za njim, ali mama je skoro dobila napad epilepsije kada je to čula. „Znaš li ti gdje je Australija?!”, udarila joj je pjena na usta. Ja sam savršeno znala gdje je Australija. Od mame bi me razdvajale bar tri svjetlosne godine. Ali nemojte da vas navedem na kriv zaključak. Nije uopšte mamina krivica to što nisam otputovala. Zapravo, taj moj tip mi je poslao jednu razglednicu kada je stigao u Australiju. Napisao je „ovo je zemlja velikih mogućnosti” i onda se izgubio u svim tim mogućnostima. Zaboravio mi se više javljati. Pratila sam pomno njegove objave na Fejsbuku. On kako drži krokodila za rep. On kako se sunča na plaži. On kako jogurtom kupljenim u nekoj bugarskoj prodavnici liječi opekotine. On kako jede smoki i liječi nostalgiju. On kako u nekom našem klubu pjevaljki gura novčanice u njedra. Onda mi je telefon jednog jutra, dok sam sjedila na wc šolji i grozničavo listala društvene mreže, ispao iz ruku ravno na pločice. Staklo na ekranu je puklo. Čovjek za pultom u servisu za opravku mobilnih telefona rekao je da bi popravka koštala više od novog telefona i pokazao u vitrini izložene kineske pametne telefone. „Nisu skupi, a dobri su”, rekao je i nastavio pričati da se ti telefoni prave u istim fabrikama, od istih dijelova, kao i iPhone. Pogledala sam čovjeka za pultom i rekla: „Ali ja ne želim novi telefon.” On je prevrnuo očima i rekao da ako baš insistiram, može naručiti novi ekran za moj telefon. Tad sam se potpuno slomila. „Ali ja ne želim nikakav telefon”, ponovila sam. I od tog trenutka nisam više ništa željela i tako sam utonula u to moje stanje koje sam vam već pomenula. Jedino sam još željela biti u svom krevetu i gledati kriminalističke serije. Samo me to još činilo srećnom.
Naravno, sreća nije dugo potrajala. Mama me je već namirisala. Tačno sekundu prije nego što će detektiv Frost razotkriti ubicu, utrčala je u sobu, potpuno zaklonivši ekran. Izgledala je prilično uzrujano. Nisam odmah razumjela šta se desilo, jer je nekontrolisano mlatila rukama i istovremeno pričala brzo. Kad je vidjela da je samo blijedo gledam, stala je, uhvatila dah i ponovila sve. Strina Stana se udavila komadićem piletine. Stric Radomir ju je našao na kuhinjskom podu, modru, iskolačenih očiju. Noktima je gotovo iščupala grkljan. Mama, u želji da što vjernije dočara scenu, uhvatila se objema rukama za grkljan. Plazila je jezik i prevrtala očima.
Nisam uspjela vidjeti ko je ubica. Kada se mama konačno odmakla od TV-a, na ekranu se već vrtjela odjavna špica.
− Strašno − nezadovoljno sam otpuhnula, misleći na tek završenu kriminalističku seriju. Sumnjala sam da je ubica ona baba koja uzgaja golubove, ali možda i nije. Nekada tako znaju zapetljati samu priču da do kraja ne možeš sa sigurnošću znati ko je ubica. Zato i obožavam britanske kriminalističke serije. One nove, američke, u kojoj se glavni inspektor, umjesto mozgom i intuicijom, služi skupim laboratorijskim testovima koji ga pomoću jednog zrna prašine mogu dovesti do ubice, čista su glupost. Mada, gledam i njih, ali samo kad na TV-u nema ništa drugo.
− Strašno. I više nego strašno! − ponovila je mama i dodala − Sahrana je sutra na seoskom groblju.
− Sutra − rekla sam odsutno, pokušavajući se sjetiti u koliko sati će se sutra emitovati repriza kriminalističke serije koja se upravo završila.
− Mora biti sutra. U selu nemaju mrtvačnicu, pa moraju iz istih stopa sahraniti pokojnike. Sreća u nesreći je što se udavila kad je zahladnjelo. Zamisli ljeti na plus četrdeset − mama se protresla od jeze zamišljajući pokojnike na plus četrdeset.
− Užas − i dalje sam nezainteresovano gledala prema TV-u, na kom se vrtjela reklama za pastu za zube.
− Šta ćeš obući? Daj da vidim imaš li šta pristojno u ormaru − mama je otvorila moj ormar i zagnjurila glavu u krpe od moje odjeće. Bilo je tu svega, od roze, flanel pidžamica koje sam nosila od svoje desete godine, nekih kariranih košulja, čistih promašaja kupljenih u onoj strašnoj i zbunjujućoj tinejdžerskoj fazi, pa do starih izlizanih majica i trenerki „za po kući”. Ozbiljne, nosive odjeće tu nije bilo. Ili je bar ja nikad nisam uspjela iskopati. Taj ormar je bio u takvom haosu da sam se čak plašila malo dublje gurnuti glavu u njega i uglavnom sam nosila samo dvije-tri majice koje su stajale na samom vrhu.
− Obući? − trepnula sam.
− Pa moraš imati nešto prikladno za sahranu. Nećeš valjda ići u farmerkama i ovoj crvenoj bluzi?! − mama je izvukla i brzo vratila u ormar svilenu, karmin-crvenu bluzu koju je nosila tokom osamdesetih godina. Te godine svog života je prilično mrzila i pokušala ih je izbrisati cijepajući sve slike na kojima je veselo pozirala, namazana po licu svim mogućim ratničkim bojama i s naramenicama dostojnim oficira Napoleonove vojske. Ta karmin-crvena bluza je jedina preživjela pakao inkvizicije. Vjerovatno jer je greškom dospjela među moje krpe.
− Zašto ja moram ići? Zar ne možeš sama? – skočila sam sa kreveta kao oparena. Ako sam išta mrzila, a to je bilo kada bi me tjerala da idem po sahranama. Te umro je kum babe Smilje, idemo na sahranu, te umro je rođak komšije sa prvog sprata. Ljudi su non-stop umirali od raka, ujeda pčela, tigrastih komaraca, krpelja, od rijetkih autoimunih bolesti, srčanih zastoja, moždanih udara, mišje groznice, alkoholizma, ali i u saobraćajnim nesrećama, ratovima, a dešavalo se nekada i od starosti. I mi bismo malo-malo išli na nečiju sahranu. Proporcionalno daleko više nego na svadbe, babine, slave i ostala veselja.
− Nemoj se ponašati kao razmaženo derište! – mama je prevrnula očima. − Uostalom, ja ne idem. Ideš samo ti.
Excerpt translated by Ellen Elias-Bursać
I had to go halfway across town. We usually pay the bills for our apartment—you know the ones, electric power, trash removal, heat, the cable connection and so forth—at a bank in our neighborhood, but their system crashed or whatever and they sent me to their main office in another part of town. So, off I went across town, walked into the bank, and there were more people there than at a soccer stadium during the World Cup finals. And to make matters worse, of the seven teller windows, only three were working, and so many people were cutting in that there was no telling where a line began and where it ended. The bank’s number dispenser, the one upon which civilization relies, broke down, resulting in a real case of gridlock. People were breathing down each other’s necks and swearing under their breath, bristling with hatred. “I gave birth to three children, worked till the last day with my belly up to my chin, but ladies these days seem so helpless”, hissed a woman with highly teased bangs when we let a pregnant woman cut in front of us in line. And then another woman nearly had a nervous breakdown when she saw them letting in a man in a wheelchair. “But he’s in a wheelchair. He’s sitting. Why him? I’m so much worse off with my varicose veins!” People began to fidget, a fight nearly broke out, but then a bald security guy showed up, and, calling us “uncultured livestock”, organized us into two lines, because, meanwhile, the third window had closed. The teller had gone off, no doubt, for her hard-earned break. It was, of course, my lot to wait in the line that moved much more slowly. At one point I remembered a cartoon in which Gustav is working as a bank teller and has a glass of red wine hidden under the counter. So first he dips his finger in the wine, then licks it and turns the page. I thought of the likelihood that these tellers were doing the same and my lips spread in a silly grin. Smiles in the line for paying bills, however, were such an unnatural and suspicious thing that the security guy, that same baldy, shot me one of those sideways glances, like “what have you got to grin about, kid”, and in an instant all trace of the smile on my face was gone. After that I just waited, huffing and puffing like everyone else. When my turn finally came and the teller greedily snatched the money from my hand, I felt pleased and satisfied. The torture was over. I was free, at least until next month.
Outside I was greeted by rain. I had no umbrella, though I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten it. For the last two months rain had been falling every godforsaken day. My umbrella had become an extension of my arm. Whatever. When I finally got home, I was soaked through and through. Even my ankle boots were drenched. I turned the key quietly in the lock and slipped into the front hall. The pressure cooker sound came from the kitchen. Mama was cooking beans and didn’t hear me. I slowly peeled off my ankle boots and my soaking wet socks and tiptoed into my room. I put my socks on the radiator to dry, though there was no heat, because, as usual, the city heating system was on the blink, slipped in under my coverlet and turned on the television. For two hundred and fifty thousand monthly payments my folks recently bought a television set with a 40-inch screen at the huge shopping center that sprouted up on the site of Dad’s former, not to call it “late great”, factory, and I inherited their old one, which wasn’t at all bad. And, better yet, I was there in the nick of time. My favorite detective show was just starting.
It has been like three years that I haven’t been up to much but lying around in bed and watching detective shows. I don’t know how else to describe the mood I’m in, except that my organism sank into a state of general lethargy. My boyfriend—and we were together for absolutely ever, you know what I mean, like since tenth grade—was sent a letter of guarantee by his aunt in Sydney and off he went. The idea was that he’d take care of my paperwork and I’d join him, but Mama almost had a seizure when she heard. “Do you even know where Australia is?” she foamed at the mouth. I know perfectly well where Australia is. There’d be at least three light years between me and Mama. But don’t get me wrong. It’s not Mama’s fault that I didn’t go. What happened is that my boyfriend sent me a postcard when he got to Australia. He wrote, “This is a country with great possibilities”, and then he vanished along with all the possibilities. He neglected to write any more. I kept a close eye on his Facebook posts. Him holding a crocodile by the tail. Him sunbathing on a beach. Him slathering on yogurt he’d bought at a Bulgarian market to treat his sunburn. Him eating Yugo-Smoki peanut puffs to ease his nostalgia. Him tucking a bill between the breasts of a singer at a nightclub. And then one morning, when I was sitting on the john and frantically scrolling through social media, my phone fell out of my hand, straight onto the floor tiles. The screen cracked. The man behind the counter at the mobile phone repair service said the repair would cost more than a new phone and he gestured to a glass case where Chinese smart phones were on display. “They don’t cost much and they work just fine”, he said and went on talking about how they make these phones at the same factories, using the same parts, as the iPhone. I looked at the man behind the counter and said, “But I don’t want a new phone”. He rolled his eyes and said that if I insisted, he could order a new screen for my phone. Then I broke down completely. “But I don’t want any sort of phone at all”. And from that moment, on, I didn’t want anything and that’s how I sank into the state I already mentioned. The only thing I still wanted was to be in my bed, watching detective shows. That was the only thing that made me happy.
Of course my happiness didn’t last long. Mama had already sniffed me out. Exactly one second before Detective Frost would uncover the murderer, she charged into the room, completely blocking my view of the screen. She looked pretty upset. I didn’t catch on right away to what was going on, because her arms were flailing and she was talking really fast. When she saw that all I could do was stare at her, she stopped, took a breath, and repeated everything. Aunt Stana had choked on a mouthful of chicken. Uncle Radomir found her on the kitchen floor, all blue, her eyes bugging out. With her fingernails she’d nearly clawed away her whole throat. In her desire to convey the scene as faithfully as possible, Mama grabbed herself by the throat with both hands. She stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes.
I had no chance to catch who the murderer was. When Mama finally stepped away from the television screen, the credits were already rolling by.
“Awful”, I huffed, grumpy, thinking of the detective show that had just finished. I suspected the murderer was the little old lady who’d been raising pigeons, but maybe not. Sometimes they tangle the story up so much that right to the end you can’t say with certainty who the murderer is. That is why I love the British detective shows. The newer American ones, where the main detective uses expensive laboratory tests that can take them from a mote of dust to the killer instead of relying on brains and intuition, are sheer idiocy. Though I watch them, too, but only when there’s nothing else on.
“ Awful. And awfuller than awful!” Mama repeated and added, “The funeral is tomorrow at the village graveyard”.
“Tomorrow”, I said absentmindedly, while trying to recall the schedule for when the episode would be rerun tomorrow.
“It has to be tomorrow. They have no mortuary in the village so they have to bury the dead right away. What a blessing in disguise that she choked to death now that the cold weather is here. Imagine this in the middle of a summer heatwave”. Mama shuddered at the very thought of the deceased, mid-heatwave.
“Awful”, I continued staring, disinterested, at the television screen at a toothpaste ad.
“What have you got to wear? Let me see if there’s anything halfway decent in here”, Mama opened my closet and thrust her head in among the clothes. There were all sorts of things from pink flannel pajamas that I have worn since I was ten, to plaid shirts, a total disaster, bought in my appalling and confusing teen phase, and all the way to the old washed out t-shirts and sweat pants for “around the house”. There wasn’t a stitch of serious, halfway decent clothing. Or at least I’d never been able to dig up something like that. The closet was in such disarray that I was even a little alarmed to push my head in so I generally wore the two or three shirts that were right on top.
“To wear?” I blinked.
“Well you must have something suitable for a funeral. I hope you’re not planning to go in jeans and this red blouse!” Mama wriggled out of the closet and quickly put back a lipstick-red silk blouse she’d worn back in the 1980s. She generally hated those years of her life and tried to erase them by ripping up all the pictures on which she struck cheery poses, with all sorts of war paint smeared over her face and shoulder padding worthy of one of Napoleon’s officers. The lipstick-red blouse was the sole item to survive the hell of the inquisition. Probably because it ended up, by mistake, among my stuff.
“Why’ve I got to go? Can’t you go by yourself?” I jumped off the bed as if scalded. If there was anything I hated, it was her making me go to funerals. Old lady Smilja’s maid-of-honor died and we’re going to the funeral, our first-floor neighbor’s cousin died. People were non-stop dying of cancer, bee stings, tiger mosquitoes, ticks, rare auto-immune disorders, cardiac arrest, strokes, mouse fever, alcoholism, but also traffic accidents, wars, and sometimes even old age. So we were forever going to somebody’s funeral. Proportionately far more than to weddings, showers, saints’ days and other festivities.
“Don’t be a spoiled brat!” Mama rolled her eyes. “And besides, I’m not going. You’re going alone”.
Related publications
EUPL Retrospective Box
Various authors