Simple

Yesterday morning, like any other morning, I rushed out of the house into the back alley in an attempt to make it to my French class, in time for the dictation (I am a dictation-maniac, I simply love them, but I hate when I miss one or two first sentences due to lateness). My boots creaking on the well-trodden snow, I walked briskly towards the main street when, all of a sudden, a big dog, his legs and ears flailing all about, dashed bouncing towards me from the house on my right. For a second I was petrified and half-turned away from him, my muscles tensed in anticipation of a bite. Funny, how many ideas can pass through your head in such an infinitesimal moment: I thought of the Central Cemetary in Belgrade where I had to pass often on my way to the bus stop and where packs of stray dogs followed me growling lowly; I thought of the woman, about whom we read in the news in the 90s, who was torn to pieces by one such pack one early morning; I thought of that huge German shepherd in Halifax who caught my wrist between his teeth as I was passing by in the opposite direction and my hand happened to be on the level with his jaws (I had a red mark for days afterwards)...

Belying such dark associations, however, the goofy-looking dog yesterday morning simply jumped up, placing his forepaws on my arms, his tongue sticking out in happiness and delirium of a new day beginning and life reawakening in the alley. He was simply saying to the first available living creature, "Hello, isn't it wonderful to be alive once again?" In less than a second, he was darting back towards the house, leaving me bemused and be-smiled. How simple a taste for life is. How uncomplicated the friendliness.

Concert of the Deaf

I like sounds, especially those that aren't officially music but happen spontaneously, in unexpected places, with an air of a message or a sign. For example, I like when I open the top drawer in the kitchen and Martin's egg-shaped metal teaholder makes a tinny, clear "ting" sound as it hits the inside wall of the drawer. Sometimes I think I'm constantly on the lookout for such little sounds, with a life of their own.

A couple of weeks ago I went to the library and took my usual route: I went straight from Berri-Uqam metro up the escalator leading to the entrance of the library. The escalator is narrow, and it is not easy to pass people by, so you normally just stand behind others and wait for the top of the stairs to emerge. Ahead on the step above me is the back of a girl in a long coat and those currently popular furry flat boots. She shifts her position lightly and instantaneously a funny, half-brushing half-grinding sound begins. I look around trying to locate the source, and finally my glance zooms in on her right boot -- a leather strip on the side is brushing against the thick rubber band on the side of the escalator, making a strange "music." She even begins to keep a rhythm by tapping her foot, which changes the "melody"and gives it a new pattern. I smile and nod in approval of her gesture, and look up to catch her eye, which must be one of those lively, playful eyes, no doubt. All I manage to see in her half-profile, however, is an ear with an earphone and a cord trailing into the depths of her coat. She can't hear any of the quirky but cool music she's making, which somehow strangely fits in with the glass cubicles and criss-crossing levels of the library. (In fact, could she hear it, she'd probably discontinue it right away...)

I don't think I would ever want to live in a world without music, but I never liked the idea of filling my ears with the music from the earphones as I'm walking outside. I don't like it because I find it bizarre that people would want to be so engulfed and isolated in the world of their own head that they would be totally deaf to anything else murmuring, squeaking, tapping, singing, humming, whistling, screaming, thudding, throbbing, clinking, swishing, pounding, rapping, howling, whimpering, roaring, hissing, or simply "sounding" in the wide world around them. What a waste to miss it. What a pity not to notice how you too can draw staff lines just by walking, or taking an escalator.

Horses Die Too

She sits half-bent into herself. Her two hands -- the hands that have worked the land, battered the drums, raised, fed, washed, held upright and loved two children, five grandchildren, and one great-grandchild -- are placed in her lap like two fragile and ageing birds, tired of air currants. Her eyes are distant; she blinks and speaks slowly; at times I feel it is a miracle that something is still tying her down to earth. Must be her inborn politeness and consideration for others. She is telling me the story of a horse.

"For a while we had a horse, Vitko. Your grandfather used him mostly for ploughing the land, when we weren't playing music in the restaurants. One day, Vitko fell ill. He must have eaten something bad -- he didn't digest properly, he couldn't release any stool, he was in pain. We didn't know what to do, there was no veterinarian; we tried walking him up and down the fields, hoping it would help, but nothing changed. The poor animal was bloated and in acute pain. And for us, animals were never just animals -- we got very used to them, they grew on us, they were almost like family members. In desperation, I resorted to the ultimate measure: I rolled up my sleeve, rubbed my arm with soap, and plunged it into the horse's anus to relieve him of the stool. It was only temporary help, however; after a short improvement, he got worse and worse, until he died. It was hard to watch him suffer, helplessly. It is hard even when a horse dies, let alone a man."

Or a daughter.

A burning-red wound gapes open where it is the most sensitive, exposed and vulnerable. I feel like stiching it up, covering up its spilling entrails with a scream -- instead, I am silent. I have no words to tell her.