ZAGREB POSTCARDS Ranko Bon Motovun, Istria January 2016
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ZAGREB POSTCARDS Ranko Bon Motovun, Istria January 2016 To my beloved, who ushered me back to the city of my birth when I least suspected I have grasped this much: if one had made the rise of great and rare men dependent upon the approval of the many (assuming that the latter knew what qualities belonged to greatness and also at whose expense all greatness evolves)—well, there would never have been a single significant man! That the course of things makes its way independently of the approval of the great majority—that is why a few astonishing things have insinuated themselves on the earth. From Friedrich Nietzsche’s The Will to Power, New York: Vintage Books, 1968, p. 472. 2 PREFACE (January 9, 2016) The title of this book comes from my erstwhile habit of pasting my pieces of writing onto postcards and sending them to friends around the world. I never counted, but I must have sent many thousands of them. Later on, the postcards reached their audience via electronic mail, and finally they ended up on a website entitled Residua (www.residua.org). By now it stretches over some forty years and it counts close to seventeen thousand pieces of writing with more than three-thousand addenda extending them. Amazingly, my magnum opus now counts more than three-million words. All these numbers were unimaginable at the outset. Given that my Residua is a book about everything under the sun, years ago I started making selections from it on different subjects. The first three such selections are Belgrade Postcards (2002), Istrian Postcards (2003), and Motovun Postcards (2007), but there are many others by now. In brief, I was born in Zagreb, grew up in Belgrade, lived all over the world most of my life, and now I am living in Motovun. Well, I also spend ever more of my time in the city of my birth. All of my selections have the same structure: many short pieces of writing arranged in chronological order. All the pieces and all the addenda extending them are dated. Quite a few of my observations and opinions about Zagreb will irk many of those who love the city and feel at home in it. I can only hope that some of my pieces will also make them pause on occasion, as well as laugh every now and then. But this selection from my writings is primarily meant for people like me, who cannot call Zagreb their home. I was only born in it, after all. And I was a toddler when my parents decided to move away and take me with them. At this stage of my life, I am a stranger in it, if not also a foreigner. Thus I hope that strangers and foreigners who happen to live in Zagreb at present will enjoy the book the most. And especially if English is their elective language, as is the case with me. 3 LA TOUR EIFFEL (August 7, 1978) The train pulled jerkily into Zagreb around nine o’clock in the evening. Damp hot air crawled into the compartment. Famished, I went out on the crowded platform to find something to eat. Acrid stench of innumerable people glued together by sweat, stumbling aimlessly about: peasants, cripples, beggars, straw hats, guitars, plastic balls of many colors... A girl of approximately twelve emitting high- pitched screams of an imbecile, followed quickly and attentively by her mother. Drunkards, sticky pavement, beer puddles, Germans traveling to the coast, the crunch of broken bottles, musty windows covered with flies... The Balkans. And then, through the damp backs I caught a glimpse of a man carrying a homemade plywood model of the Eiffel Tower on his back. Slightly stooped, he moved elegantly through the crowd, protecting his treasure. The varnished plywood glistened through the haze. The loudspeakers muttered something, and I hurried back to my compartment to feed on the single egg that I forced myself to buy. A few jerks, and the train was on its way to Split again. “Tomorrow morning I will touch the sea!” Addendum I (February 1, 1990) I was born in Zagreb, the capital of Croatia, in 1946. My parents met there in the early Thirties, having both moved to Zagreb from the coast. My father was born in the town of Krk, the capital of the largest island in the Adriatic bearing the same name, and my mother was born in Pazin, the capital of Istria. In 1948 we all moved to Belgrade, the capital of both Yugoslavia and Serbia, where I grew up. From capital to capital, ever deeper into the Balkans. The proof of the proposition that Zagreb is in the Balkans also, which would annoy many a citizen of this proud city, is straightforward: all one needs to do is to make a brief visit to the public toilet in the Central Railway Station. Addendum II (November 15, 1997) My No. 1 son has been living in Zagreb since graduation from Brown this summer. Many of his stories testify to my verdict, but one of them is especially poignant. One evening he went to a popular night-club. 4 Two groups of young men were getting ever more drunk and ever more belligerent toward each other. At some point, one fellow smashed a bottle over another fellow’s head and then stabbed him in the chest with the remaining shards. There was much blood on the dancing floor and the wounded fellow was dragged out by his comrades. Everyone else continued dancing on the bloody floor as though nothing had happened. After a few minutes the floor was trampled dry, but the dancers’ shoes and clothing were splattered with blood. The Balkans. Addendum III (July 4, 2002) And now, the clincher as to the “geographic” status of my birthplace. As I was sipping my double espresso in Coffee Republic in Reading, I sent a mobile-phone text-message to a dear friend in Zagreb, telling her where I was. She knows my haunts in Reading well. “Funny,” she responded immediately, “I am on my way to my favorite café here.” Then she added, knowing my mind, as well: “Its name used to be ‘Balkan,’ but now it’s ‘Europa’.” The proof definite. Addendum IV (January 22, 2017) Pray, who was the “dear friend” from Zagreb who was mentioned in the previous addendum? My beloved, of course. We were together when I bought my house in Motovun at the end of the very same month that addendum was penned. I was on my way to Istria, the land of my ancestors, so as to be close to her. Through her, I gradually became close to Zagreb, as well. The city of my birth is not exactly to my liking to this day, but that is where my beloved lives. What better reason could there be to return to the Balkans, as well? Destiny, nothing but destiny! A TOUCH OF ROMANTICISM (August 14, 1987) Since 1983 I have been living on a regular cycle: nine months in the United States, three months in Yugoslavia. During the school year I am at MIT. My fortress, my steel tower. A mercenary of sorts, I face battle practically every day. Braced in one of my magnificent three- piece suits, I command my forces with relish. Daily exercise brings my every muscle almost to the point of perfection. When it is over, though, I feel exhausted beyond recovery. As soon as my professorial duties have been fulfilled, I join my parents and friends in Belgrade. Proud oblivion ensues: I survived another season! The cycle reminds me of military campaigns of old, which started in the early spring and ended in late fall, as soon as heavy rains made troop movements impracticable. Now I am facing another campaign. In a week I will rejoin the assembling troops. And I feel the kind of excitement I expect any superannuated mercenary would feel at this time. Excitement mixed with sweet fear, involuntary muscle contractions, 5 and something resembling both tenderness and disgust for the still distant enemy. Longing for the damned enemy. Addendum I (April 5, 1998) Things are different now, but not fundamentally. I still live on a regular cycle: half a week in Reading, half a week in London. While in Reading, I face battle every day. A mercenary of sorts, I command my forces with relish. Come Friday afternoon, though, I feel exhausted beyond recovery. As soon as my professional duties have been fulfilled, I join Lauren and the children in London. Proud oblivion ensues: I survived another week! Everything is the same, or perhaps similar, except that my parents now live in Reading, and that oblivion is hard to reach with the rest of the family in London. The similarity with military campaigns of old is thus sadly lost. Still, there must be some mercenaries today who regularly commute to their little jobs around the globe. Addendum II (February 6, 2013) Since 2003 things are different one more time, but not fundamentally once again. The cycle is far from regular, but a cycle it surely is: a while in Motovun, and a while in Zagreb. Although my beloved comes to Motovun from time to time, she is the main, if not the only, attraction of the Croatian capital. Winters are now reserved for Zagreb, though. If there is any reason to mention the military campaigns of old, it is that Motovun is now the battleground. It was supposed to be the hilltown of divine rest, but my battle with its mayor has changed things as of 2008.