The day starts around noon and walks to the letterbox. Afterwards I return to the flat with empty hands, or, at best with the telephone bill. Speaking of the phone I start to use it. A few hours later, a girl rings my doorbell. I open it. She enters, sometimes she removes her shoes, and stands in the doorway of my room. “My God, what a mess!”, cry all those girls. At such times they forget that it’s my room and that I live in it. In their frenzy of forgetfulness they begin to clear up. Most of the time they are annoyed that the bed is not as it should be: pillow, sheet and blanket, that’s if the blanket isn’t on the floor. I used to think that they had a phobia of such beds, but then how could I explain the fact that all of them, or almost all of them, had been laying in it and making love to me. Girls are strange. “Your bed isn’t made”, is what they always say. None of them make remarks about my desk. I suppose that a desk full of papers and books and on top of all that – a typewriter, is justified by the fact thah they consider me a writer. I imagine that the bed annoys them because they don’t consider me to be a lover. Nor a sleeper. In any case, I’m a big dreamer. Very few of them are aware of that.
Someone’s at the door. I open it. It’s the postman. He has a large envelope for me. It weights ½ a kilo. I am expecting to find some of the letters I’ve written to her over the past two years. In the envelope I find my short stories. They haven’t won the competition. They came third. Third place in that competition isn’t awarded any money and doesn’t get printed. But the envelope itself is a surprise. Sometimes I think that my letterbox is cursed, that there is an invisible barrier around it that won’t allow her letter in. So I always imagine that her letter will get through after another letter has broken down the barrier. Or at least made a small crack in it. That would be enough. I ask for no more.
Someone knocks on the door. There isn’t any electricity. I open the door. One of them is standing in my doorway. The she enters, taking off her shoes (it’s raining outside) and she stands in the doorway of my room. “My God, what a mess!”, and she comes in. “Your bed isn’t made”, and after that we fuck. So, for a moment a manage to forget about the letter that I’m waiting for.
I’m a sly guy. Her photographs are on the wall that you can’t see from the bed. In this way I look at her when I write. I consider myself as a writer. I would I’m a sleeper. And a lover, sometimes. I just write down things that happen. I do that with passion and bias. It helps me forget about the letter. Sometimes.
Girls are strange. One of them came to me as a virgin. Somehow we undressed and slid under the blanket. She was getting wet slowly. But, slowly is better than nothing. I use all the tricks that I’ve learned over the past few years, but nothing works. She’s wet like June rain. Now she is, now she’s not. I kiss her neck her breasts her stomach. I descent to her pussy. I kiss her, I nibble her, I nibble her, I lick her. I feel the minutes pass by. Her pussy doesn’t mean anything to me. All girls make love in a different way. That’s the bait. You never know what you’ll get. That’s why I kiss, nibble and lick her. There is a light coming through the window. The rain has stopped. She’s getting wetter. I hope she’ll be more aroused. The licking is getting monotonous; I hear nothing from her. I wonder what she’s doing with her hands. I open my eyes. She’s looking at me and smiling. SMILING??? SMILING!!! Is she frigid? No, she isn’t. She shouldn’t be. She’s only and “only” 19. The frigidity has nothing to do with age. So, what the fuck is she smiling for? I pull away from her and I’m as silent as a stump. What else can I do? To brake that fucking (unfucked) hymen of hers while she’s smiling? I’m always have anxious when confronted whit a hymen. I’m afraid that it’ll cause them pain. And this cow is laughing. Oh, fuck it, adventures in the city are like that. Maybe I should leave.
I’ve never met as many virgins as I’ve met in Skopje. And they are all fucking, sucking cock, wanking you off. You should just break them. How the fuck am I going to break her when she’s laughing guilessly. Her smiling killed me. She wasn’t smiling from pleasure. Nor from fear. She was just smiling… I don’t think I was funny. Who can tell? In any case, I showed her to the door. Maybe I should have rape her. How do you rape someone. It doesn’t matter, forget it.
She was here to take your mind of the letter.
It’s dangerous to start the day with the Blues. Everything can get turned inside-out. Beer in certain quantity can help. Above and below certain levels – it hinders. What is important the exact magical measure. Meter isn’t important. It’s raining today. So maybe the postman won’t come at all. In any case, I’ll go to the letterbox.
The Blues is playing and someone knocks on the door.
One of them enters my room. It seems that what others call “mess” doesn’t bother her at all. She sits at the desk and starts going over the books. She finds the latest issue of “Razgledi” and starts flicking through it. Later, excited that she has found a female name among the poets she begins to read out loud. At the beginning the poetess is pregnant, then she gives birth, then New Year comes, then they go on holiday by plain and so on. Worn out metaphores and boredom. I’m convinced that the Poetess is never in need of drink or sleep and regularly goes on holiday in summer. By plain. That beats me. I don’t even have enough to buy beer and in comparison, my poems are better. Finally, the Poetess isn’t expecting a letter. The one who has created the object of her inspiration is probably beside her. And even if he isn’t, she still has the object. I thought that children create more vivid inspiration. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Today is hellishly hot and smells of summer. She’s sitting and getting excited by someone’s poems. Maybe something nice will happen. Maybe she has money for beer. Maybe we will fuck. She has long legs and a transparent shirt and beautiful breasts.
Maybe I will fuck her on the desk, among all the books and papers next to the typewriter that hasn’t worked for weeks. That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I should take her photographs off the wall. No, I can’t force myself to try to forget. I’ll fuck her in the shower, it’s hot after all. Although the electricity comes from water, they can’t cut my water off. One day I’ll pay all my bills. I believe that I’ll get is mine. I can not force myself to try to forget.
– You really know how to achieve popularity, eh?, said Janko one day.
– No, I don’t. How?
– Well mate, all those little pussies, pussies and big pussies that you’ve fucked –will be buying your books one day. They’re flattered when you write about them. They’re boasting about being with you.
– It doesn’t matter. My letterbox is cursed.
– What is it now, are you going mad again?
– Seriously. It’s one hundred per-cent cursed. I’ll go and have a look, anyway.
I went down the stairs to the letterbox, I took out the key, unlocked it and, the letter was inside. I went to the front of the building and I tore open the envelope. The letter was long, written in her handwriting. It said that she needed me, that she loved, she wanted to see me, and so on until the post script. And there she had written something similar. I read the letter once again and remained sited in front of the building. I didn’t know what to do first so the best thing to do seemed to be sat and do nothing. Those smart asses in the movies always know what to do. It’s written in the script.
29 March 91
Translated by: Keith Aleandri & Igor Isakovski