By Borislav Pekic
*
In his final hours, visible to those still alive watching, a loyal friend asked Danilo if he was in any pain.
Yes, it hurts, he replied.
What hurts? –the friend asked.
Life hurts, Danilo said.
In this short, simple and content acknowledgment of our defeat, that was presented without hope, but also without despair, uttered without any accusation and still with the contempt typical of a winner, in this only possible and true definition of human perspective, whether we like it or not, was hermetically sealed ,contained and in the mold of the fate preserved, his entire existence.
In this life of Danilo, the life that had outlived its years, like in some indestructible milestone of human history other lives were gathered – the lives of the already born and those yet to be born participants and accomplices of the world he transited, he himself representing a shadow of a possibility that is better than reality, higher in its calling, more noble in its purpose, bearing more gifts in its sacrifices, at peace with the knowledge that to be a shadow of something different, in a harsh and cruel world of our illusion, is taking a risk, comforted by the fact that, in the end , it was the risk worth taking.
Impossible cannot be achieved, but sometimes, the impossible can, and should be, aspired.
We met long time ago, and it seems that we knew each other long before that.
I always had the impression that our paths had crossed in the past, that we were friends once before, that we lived our lives together in some ancient time, and that all of this, the period from the early sixties till late eighties was just a more intimate sequel, to be followed by a third part – longer and lasting forever.
And when we did meet again, both of us knew, driven by the instinct of a loner , almost an outcast, in other words a foreigner eternally longing for The Home, we knew that we were to remain friends.
We were friends not only joined by the things that brought us together, put perhaps more with the things that were to keep us apart.
What brought us together was our dual, montenegrin-pannonian heritage, always there to deliver its unpredictable harvest; our everlasting forced and even chosen exiles; the burden of being a foreigner that we both suffered carrying – mostly in private, but sometimes even in the public, yet never throwing it away, for it seamed that this burden was the most painful and at the same time most significant component of our fate.
And everything else that we had in common...
A lot of things kept us apart, and by keeping us apart managed to create a bond that ties people closer together and in a more honorable way. We were separated by the misfortune he felt and I merely caught the glimpse of, the faith in art that he so passionately nurtured and I only visited his temple of the believer as a mere guest, the intensity of force of life that I kept cowardly at bay, and he turned into his mission in the world around him that was dead.
Now, nothing stands between us, except a small fragment of time that is not really there, anyway.
*
(translated by me admiring from a distance)
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