Translated from the B/C/S by Mirza Puri膰.
鈥淥h, Menso, the trouble you鈥檝e lived to see!鈥 he said to himself, as his breath turned into whitish mist in the cold.
He was walking in his neighbourhood, looking around. The streets were incredibly empty. He didn鈥檛 think it was possible not to see anyone that day. Unusually, not even his neighbour Mara had left her flat to do her morning shopping. She never missed her morning walk. Menso knew this because he preferred spying on his neighbours to watching breakfast television.
A voice was booming in his head.
Look right, look left. Have a little peek.
He didn鈥檛 even want to look to the other side of the neighbourhood. He鈥檇 known for a long time there wasn鈥檛 much to see anyway. He was afraid he would get sick if he looked, as he did on that day when he withdrew into himself, his small flat, his mouldy room. On this coldish morning, he decided, with great difficulty, to go out and buy some coffee. He would鈥檝e eschewed even that if he鈥檇 had any coffee left. All those countless times he鈥檇 thanked God and the heavens for his wife鈥檚 making sure they were well stocked. The only thing that worried him was where to find a roastery.
Gah, if there鈥檚 any to be got anywhere.
He looked at his watch. Half past eight, nobody out in the street.
鈥淕od, is it even a working day?鈥 he asked himself and pressed on.
Menso had stopped counting days, although he had a big calendar in his kitchen. He avoided it as if it were guarded by all the hounds of hell. He couldn鈥檛 explain to himself why, after he was left alone, he withdrew from everything.
A bit further from his neighbourhood sprawled an enormous road with three and a half lanes. There were no more flowers along the kerbs. At least not real flowers. They had long been replaced by holograms. The day he swore never to leave his flat again, it happened that, driven by sorrow and joy, he鈥檇 reached to pick a flower. To his amazement, his hand went straight through the hologram. As he was reminiscing about that moment, Menso started to mumble sotto voce into his grey beard.
鈥淟ook what they鈥檝e done. Now they鈥檝e built an even bigger building by the old post office, as if the old monstrosity wasn鈥檛 enough … Never mind it being gaudy as a traffic light, each office is now connected directly to the employee’s flat. Looks like an octopus snatchin鈥 鈥檈m with his greedy tentacles and devourin鈥 鈥檈m.鈥
That big booming voice in his head said brusquely, What are you doing philosophising and talking to yourself? Where鈥檚 the bloody coffee?
鈥淎h, the coffee,鈥 Menso remembered and went across the bridge to the old roaster鈥檚.
As the sun was peering through the fog, the old man waddled through the familiar streets, reminiscing about the days when, as a boy, he ran to and fro in them. The town looked like a complete wasteland.
鈥淭hey’ll be taking a break soon,鈥 he said to himself.
In the window of Haso鈥檚 old roastery, there was a big neon sign. It read:
BEST COFFEE IN TOWN听
SIGN UP听
FILL IN REGISTRATION FORM听
ENJOY YOUR COFFEE
Huffing and puffing from the walk, Menso didn鈥檛 understand anything. The bright light of the sign was hurting his eyes. He felt his blood pressure rise.
鈥淲hat form? What kind of a sign is this? God, there isn鈥檛 a door on this thing. I can鈥檛 even come in and 鈥檃ve a sniff, see what blend I want!鈥 shouted the disorientated old man.
Below the sign, on a big touch screen, there were two large fields in two different colours. The text above them read:
ORDER YOUR COFFEE HERE
Menso was looking at the two fields. One was green, the other red. The green one instructed:
Already signed up? Press for usual blend.
while the brightly lit red field flashed:
Not a user? Press for trial.
The poor old man broke out in a cold sweat. Red and green. Trial. Usual blend. Nothing seemed right and proper like in the good old times.
鈥淲hat the hell is this? I don鈥檛 want to press and click. Nothing can replace the little table Haso used to have in front of the shop. So you pop down for a cup of coffee, he brews it just for you, you have a little chat, and then you say, 鈥業t鈥檚 so good, this blend is, I鈥檒l 鈥檃ve a kilo please.鈥 And now you press, you register, you select 鈥 What bloody registration?鈥 the old man was screaming in front of the red neon sign.
鈥淪o, I ain鈥檛 a user already? It鈥檚 like I鈥檓 an addict. 鈥榃e 鈥檃ve to enter you in the Coffee Drinkers Anonymous database鈥,鈥 said Menso, in a faux-female voice
His head was ringing, bleakly and consistently. The devil take 鈥檕ever made me go outside.
On the way home, it seemed to him that, old and infirm as he was, he was still looking forward to the possibility that something might change back. Although he led a solitary life and was afraid of all the changes his town had gone through, deep inside he nurtured hope that everything was just a dream and that someone would show up and stop the horrid machine that crushed everything that was beautiful and made his life better. In his thoughts, he admitted to himself he couldn鈥檛 bear the fact that everything he had once held dear was no longer dear to him, or was gone, or required registration.
鈥淚 registered a long time ago.鈥 Menso heaved a sigh and turned the corner to his street.
There so many things were still familiar and dear to him. His attempt to buy coffee having failed, coffee was the only thing he was missing. He closed the front door when he came in and looked around the place. A fat orange cat was sitting on the yellow carpet, Menso鈥檚 only friend since his wife had died. Menso had never liked cats, nor did cats like him. His late wife loved them and fed them furtively, although he chided her for it. After her death, Menso found comfort in saving and adopting a kitten to remind him of his wife. The cat swished his tail, scanning Menso with a beseeching gaze. The old man waddled to the kitchen and leaned on the sink. He raised his head towards the ceiling and said with annoyance, 鈥淚’ve got to feed this bloody cat. I 鈥檕pe 鈥檈 won鈥檛 turn into an 鈥檕logram and say, 鈥楻egister 鈥檈re to feed me.鈥欌
Photographic response by听Sanja Vrzi膰
Naida Avdovi膰听was born in Sarajevo in 1987. She received her MA in English Language and Literature from the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Sarajevo. She is a member of the Sarajevo Writers鈥 Workshop and has performed her poetry and prose at the Sarajevo War Theatre (SARTR) together with her colleagues. Her work has appeared in听H.O.W Journal听(online) and in the first Narrative Witness publication (Caracas-Sarajevo) produced by the University of Iowa’s听International Writing Program. Her short story 鈥淗azim鈥 was serialized in the online journal听NEMA.听Her paper “Postmodernism and Eschatology: Apocalyptic Vision in Kurt Vonnegut鈥檚 Cat鈥檚 Cradle”听was published as part of a conference collection through Belgrade鈥檚 Alfa University.听Currently, Naida works as an English language teacher at a Montessori school in Sarajevo. She writes prose and poetry in both English and Bosnian.听听
Mirza Puri膰听is a literary translator working from German and B/C/S. He serves as a contributing editor with听今日看料听and in-house translator with Sarajevo Writers鈥 Workshop. From 2014 to 2017 he was an editor-at-large with听Asymptote. He has several book-length translations into B/C/S under his belt and his shorter translations into English have appeared in听Asymptote, H.O.W., 今日看料听and听PEN America,听among other places. He plays Bass VI and baritone guitar in a band.
Sanja Vrzi膰 is an architect, photographer, and graphic designer. She was born in Sarajevo, where she completed a degree in architecture in 2010. Since then, she has worked as a freelancer in Sarajevo, Paris, and Nice. Her expertise is in landscape, documentary, and cultural photography.
Published on November 2, 2017.
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