Rajka – Tiny Murder - Group 3

          On a lazy Sunday afternoon I feel mellow. My mind wonders wherever it wishes.  I’ve been playing Chopin’s 1 st Concerto the whole afternoon, dozing off pleasantly from time to time.

I cannot just sit here and listen to music. Too many things have to be done,

no matter how dull and boring they might be. There must be more to life

than just daily maintainace. I must do something. Anything. I cannot let

the time pass me by.

I get up, go to the kitchen, look at the breakfast dishes, shrug my shoulders

and make a Cappuccino. 

Cappuccino in hand, I am startled by the telephone. I do not want to answer it, but then, you never know.  Putting down the mug, I spill coffee and burn my hand. The phone keeps on ringing. 

Shall I first wipe the spill? I should put my hand under cold water first.  

I answer the telephone.

“Is this my countryman?”  asks the voice. 

“No, this is your country woman.”

“I am sorry I cannot distinguish between men and women. The only thing that matters is that you and I are from the same part of the world.”

       

    For the past 40 years, every January, Milan calls to invite me to his “Slava”, a party in honor of his Saint’s namesake, a tradition of Orthodox Serbs.   The ritual is always the same. He stands at the entrance door offering each guest a little spoon and asks them to dip into the bowl of wheat and honey, the symbol of good faith. For many years there a stream of guests came and went between 6pm and midnight. Suckling pig and a generous spread of Serbian specialties were preceded by Slivovica, the national plum brandy.

When I first began attending his Slava, the majority of guests were Yugoslavs: Serbs, Croats, Slovenes, Macedonians, Bosnians, Montenegrians.   There were also some Americans, Germans, French, Latin Americans, a few Chinese, Japanese and Koreans.  Most of them were married to a Yugoslav.

Milan used to say:

“I am a lucky man.  I have United Nations right here in my house. The difference between mine and the official UN is that we all get along much better and have much more fun.”

It is not so any more. Every year there are fewer and fewer people coming.   Ever since the war in my country some people who were Yugoslavs now identify with their own “newly independent country.”  I am the only Croatian in a Serbian home to show and accept good faith.

I tell Milan that I admire his determination to celebrate  “Slava” with people regardless of their nationalities.

“Ah, what really matters is that we are still the same people only under different flags. Those who changed have committed tiny murders. They’ve killed off part of their original selves.”

“I am glad there are people like you. I can boast to my friends: 

There is a man, a Serb, who keeps on inviting to his sacred holiday a woman, a Croat.”

I am back in my chair, with the half-cup of Cappuccino. I put my feet up and listen, again, to Chopin. I wonder: to whom does he belong? To everyone, to no one. Another soul who transcends us all and makes us whole. Content, I listen