Publikacija SEP 2011 - Vilenica

mustache. He often drove Ozan to photo-sessions. It seemed Ozan’s
“Oh” fashion agency had its drivers. At least Ozan told me so. “What’s
Urug got to do with this”
“You’re even dumber than me”, he ventilated his feelings in hilarious
insults aimed at my obvious naivety. “That old guy is the owner
of the shop where I had been slaving away. Actually, he’s the owner of
maaaany shops”, he waved his hands in the air making invisible circles
to suggest the whirlpools of shops and huge storehouses belonging
to the dreadful Urug, workplaces that had swallowed up Ozan’s
life. “One night, he was standing under your window. Actually, it’s
anybody’s guess how many times he stood there. Yes, that’s right!”, he
shouted at me, spitting small crumbs of muffin, “He saw us while we
were kissing in front of the window. You and your bloody curtains.
And stars!” he was choking. Choking with anger, with waves, water,
helplessness.
“Ozan, I’ll come back when you’ve had time to calm down.”
I paused for a moment in the corridor, listening to Ozan’s meaningless
shouting.
II
Ozan’s phone call late at night. Despite my dread that it would be
even more confused, bitter and aggressive, his voice was tranquil and
pleasant. I could hear the parquet floor creaking somewhere in the
background – it was Ozan’s restless pace.
The dramatic elements in our conversation equated zero. As if today
and yesterday were erased from the calendar. Ozan said indifferently:
“Don’t forget your iron. You’ve left it at my place.” I gave out a
sound intending to express: it doesn’t matter, or: it can wait until you
come back.
“I heard from my mother”, he said.
i remember a childhood story: the game of hide and seek, and a boy
who hid himself so well that nobody could ever find him. proud of his
skill, he did not want to go back on his own.
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