Petar exhibited in Banja Luka last night. He would be offended if I didn’t show up, and that would suit me. My brother, organizer of the event, insisted that I come, so I did. He had gotten upset without reason so many times before, and probably would again if I didn’t appear. My uncle was at our house when we talked about it, and he said he would come too because he had heard about the exhibition.
I left the house alone, my brother had already gone to ensure everything was prepared properly. When I entered the gallery and saw Petar’s works, which I already knew, and the large crowd, the words from the song “With these people, you have nothing…” and the guitar intro from that song popped into my head. There were Veljko, Goran, Aleksandar, Cindy, my brother, all smiling and dressed for special occasions. There was also our neighbor Dane and several people from his circle. “D.O.C. alumni,” I thought to myself. Petar was introduced as a talented artist, avant-garde, up-and-coming, contemporary, innovative. After the opening, I saw my uncle and we looked at the works together. One of the first pieces we looked at was called “I Pretend to Not See.” My uncle and I exchanged glances and continued to explore. After we completed the round of viewing, my uncle cautiously asked:
“What is this, David?”
“Pop art, I guess.”
“You mean europop art?” He asked with a laugh.
Veljko and his friend came over to us. They liked the exhibition. They asked me if Petar was my friend and how long we had known each other. My brother made sure everyone knew that we were Petar’s friends. I sensed they were envious because they didn’t have a famous artist as a friend. After they left, my uncle joked:
“You’re friends with a famous artist now. Go talk to some girls and mention that. It’ll be useful to you.”
“Yeah, it turned out great, but there are also people with cameras. This will be in the newspapers, and then we’ll pay for today’s fame.“
“Make the most of the day, David.”
“I prefer to not make the most.”
“Let’s go before they take our picture here.”
We walked out through the acoustic hallway, and I began whistling the guitar intro that popped earlier, and my uncle joined me.
Outside, it was crowded, summer vacations had started, and many people who worked abroad were back here temporarily. It was similar to the crowds around New Year’s and Christmas. My uncle praised the government’s work.
“People don’t realize how much government has done for us, sending all these people abroad. Imagine if they were always here, it would be like this at every intersection. How much time would we waste for every task in the city? Just imagine the pollution while rows of cars wait at intersections throughout the year.”
Today, my brother invited Petar over for lunch. They were both happy with yesterday’s event, and the good mood spread to my father and mother. They recounted the compliments from the professors, other artists, and journalists, the good organization, the appetizers, and the drinks. The stone from the Acropolis on the shelf fit into the whole picture for the first time. I enjoyed the food and didn’t want to spoil anything. I called Milica to heal me, but she wasn’t free today. I thought about doing something instead of following my brother and Petar, but I couldn’t think of anything smart in time. By inertia, I went with them to DraganÄŤe’s. Veljko, Aleksandar, and Goran arrived.
We drank a lot, and the discomfort gradually diminished. By the end, everything felt comfortable and a little funny. I enjoyed it, and my brother enjoyed it even more. For him, there was no doubt that Petar was a genius, and it happened that he arranged his arrival, was the first to suggest it, and in a way, discovered him for the wider public. The words of everyone present were unequivocal. My uncle told me yesterday that everything sounds logical and credible when said seriously enough.
My thoughts drifted after a while. I thought about Boyana. I again doubted if I could have done something to make the situation much better. Instead of being close to her now, I was sitting with my brother and Petar at Draganče’s café. While I was lost in my thoughts, sounds from the battlefield reached me. On the other side of the table, an epic battle was unfolding between my brother and Veljko. My brother boasted about his recent event management successes, his good status in the party, while Veljko prided himself on his thousand-year-old Banja Luka heritage and his status as a local resident, which invalidated any achievements of someone not born in this city, even organizing an avant-garde exhibition with unprecedented appetizers and drinks. The battle wasn’t open, no rushing. The opponents tactically chose topics where they could, supposedly casually, highlight all their qualities, seemingly not offending anyone who didn’t have those specific traits.
Just a few days ago, we sat at Uncle Boshko’s atelier. Uncle Milan, Boshko’s friend who lived in Ian’s Street, was also there, a kind-hearted man of Boshko’s age. Elena, Maxim, Ian, and I came together. We sat around, and after a while, something like our collective consciousness appeared. Between us, just above the table, was something we all belonged to. Everyone would take the glowing ball when they spoke, add something to it, and carefully return it. Then someone else would take it. It was as if invisible lines of geodynamics existed between us, transmitting everything that couldn’t fit into words. The whole world fit into that space above the table. I felt paralyzed, forgetting I had a body.
It didn’t matter who was older, who had what education or money, who had traveled where. What mattered was what was being said, the ball above the table that we all built. A sixty-six-year-old man listened to what children just over twenty had to say, treating them as equals. The children respected his library, his fonotheque, his experience, knowing they still had much to learn. Wine galvanized the ball. “With wine, everything is fine,” Uncle Milan often said.
The small hours often found us in the atelier, no one wanted to go home, but we made sure to leave before dawn, so we could sleep more easily while it was still night.
The ball didn’t always appear during every gathering in the atelier. Just one guest eager for attention and dominance could ruin everything and lead the conversation in completely the wrong direction. For example, Boshko’s friend, Uncle Matija. He didn’t visit often, but at the beginning of July, he was there on both Friday and Saturday. It was a weekend at a commonplace.
On the other hand, conversations with Veljko, my brother, and Petar were a sort of psychological Counter Strike, where snipers and automatics were disabled, they fought with cold weapons, and mines were added. Lots of traps and unpleasant scenes.
In any case, I was currently fitting into that Counter Strike, and it wasn’t boring, but soon I noticed I had drank too much alcohol and needed to sleep as soon as possible. I left under the excuse of being drunk. I didn’t want anyone to drive me home. It was a bad decision, but at that moment, it seemed logical. The police stopped me. I stopped, and it was clear I would pay the fine and temporarily lose my driver’s license. I hadn’t planned on trying to explain anything.
“Your driver’s license and registration, please.“
“Here you go.“
“Have you been drinking?“
“Yes.“
“David, how is your father?“
“He’s fine, he doesn’t complain.“
He returned my documents and indicated that I could continue driving.
“Kids, you’re really growing fast.“
I regret that I don’t know who let me go. I didn’t see their face clearly, nor could I remember.
The game was delayed for another week. Fixing errors is still ongoing.
