Short Story

Dzari Vlevnara

The great poet died in Zagreb. A life of exceptional rigour had given his voice a weight that shocked people not acquainted with talent. His body was diseased. Slowly, like the bruise of water-stain on paper, it had spread; first the bowels, then the stomach, and finally the lungs. In these last days the lacerating pain did not weaken his voice; rather, it seemed to grow. Words gained history, became almost palpable. And then he died.

His death coincided with the commencement of my own great work, “The Toponomic Variations of the Croation Auxiliary Verbs” upon which I was to dedicate many years of my life. I looked forward to the praise I would receive from well meaning colleagues when I completed my undertaking, but I knew my main pleasure would derive from the knowledge that any further discussion in the field would be a footnote to my masterpiece. My ten years of silent, solitary study in Zagreb’s main library would not be unremembered, nor would my steadfast refusal to sully my work with any knowledge of Croation, an uninteresting and ugly language, have been in vain.

During these years I stayed in a pension owned by an understanding, competent lady, with whom I had developed a complex private sign language. A nod of the head was greeting, a raised hand was hello (and goodbye), a brisk shiver and stamping of feet meant “cold today” etc. Evening meals were at eight. I, and the three other boarders- I never learnt their names, and never attempted to interrupt their incessant nonsensical babble- would dine on the meat and rice dishes (not sumptuous, but acceptable) and loosen our belts after tinned fruit and coffee. I would allow myself one luxury: a languidly smoked cigarette, which I would quench with a sigh and then, raising my eyebrows to the landlady as if to say “well, back to the old grind, goodnight, goodnight all”, would retire.

My days began with a bracing walk through the cold winter air (mild in spring, hot in summer, mild in autumn) to my beloved library. With a friendly nod at the librarian I would sit and begin to work. Every day brought new challenges, new indecipherable words to be broken, to be placed within my grand scheme. I had developed a complex but absolutely elegant phonetic system for my language. To me every word was an angel to be gifted with a heavenly voice with which to sing my praise. With some bold strokes Slavic confusion was erased and my new-croat became a model of clarity. I can still remember the day of completion. I had worked so carefully and so methodically that there was no need for revisions or second guesses. 10 years of solitary and silent dedication had allowed me to construct a perfect structure, a flawless crystalline system which I held in paper, but also as one beautiful edifice in my mind. I had reached perfection. Now home, and triumph.

It was around this time that things started to change. On my walks back to my pension I would, instead of my normal direct route, find myself wandering through the dingier back streets of the city, almost always ending up in one of the many second hand flea stores which at that time dotted Zagreb. I would leaf through the books in my beautiful language, but, by what power I do not know, my body would shudder at the moment my eyes landed on the name Dzari Vlevnara. At those moments I would stop, and, as if I had been shaken from a dream, would look around blinkingly, meeting the inquiring gaze of the faded, unhappy men who run such establishments, and then walk out quickly, my hunched shoulders expressing (I hoped) a sense of purpose combined with an easy contempt for the questioning stare of a book-merchant. But the discomfort remained. And the name, Dzari Vlevnara.

I tried to put it out of my mind, and by the time I reached home I was already looking forward to my dinner, the happy babble of nonsense from my infantile roommates, and the satisfaction of a leisurely after-dinner smoke. The next day I strode, refreshed and confident, back to the library. My work was truly finished, but I wanted to wander through the rows of books, listen to them, as now, after giving their words voice, I could hear their sweet song. It was a Friday morning and, because it was last day of term, the library was almost empty. As I walked up the great roman steps that rose to the sombre entrance I remembered the first day I arrived, an anxious post-doc, yet with a sure faith in the eventual triumph of virtue and perseverance. I remembered the creation of my first word, how true it sang to me, like a well struck anvil note, and how it seemed that this word had more value than all others I had met until then. I had grown since, each new word added to my soul, changing me, and the world around me. The familiar bookshelves caused me waves of pleasure and nostalgia- I had created this language which now gave itself so tenderly to me. I paused as I passed the winding stair that rose from the centre of the library floor. On the first floor were the literary magazines that I had occasionally browsed and on the second there was a room holding the little visited library of some dead poet. I had never been to this library, having always thought it far too much of an intrusion to traipse unbidden through the collection of another man, but, not wanting to have been in Zagreb without seeing the remains of a great writer, I ascended the stairwell.

Light shone from a row of narrow windows that ran the length of the library ceiling, draping the second floor lobby with golden haze. On the righthandside of the vestibule the metal letters on the library door caught the light and glinted the words, Dzari Vlevnara. I didn’t shudder; it was as if I had a prior knowledge that this would happen, a knowledge that had guided me in my work, helping me on each step in the construction of my perfect language. Looking over my shoulder I confirmed my solitude and then opened the door. The smell of old books can be sweet. If kept in the good conditions, and if they are beautiful fine threaded gallimards, over time books exhale a sweet clean consoling smell. Vlevnara’s library exhaled good care and love for books of all languages and vintages, but my attention was drawn to a table in the centre of the room, on which there lay one slight edition of the poets work, his last collection. As I walked towards it I heard the whisper, and as I picked up the book and ran my eyes over the words it grew into the growl of the man I knew had died. He told me “I’ve been waiting for you a long time Dzari, and I’m proud of you. You’ve worked so hard these years to get to this point. The words sang to me too, all my life. I was a stranger to other men. They read but didn’t know my words. You too will be a stranger to other men, but you will write a great work. You will forget your home and your past and when you die someone else will become a stranger to men. This is the way it has been and the way it will be for all those who bear the secret name Dzari Vlevnara.” The voice was infinite in its understanding, it came from outside but was my own voice, the voice I had borne inside me always and expressed itself in love. I write this now, forgetting as I write, and more and more I’m forgetting the past, my life and home. But my words sing to me, and I write them down because I love those amongst whom I walk as a stranger.