Ivan Dobnik - Vilenica

122 · Stanka Hrastelj
that is the picture I see sometimes. No idea why we keep calling on them,
deep inside, deep in my centre, in my stomach, I hear my own voice saying
it can't be that we're common snobs, desperate to hang out with artsy
people, dear God, to visit from such motives would make Erik and me
downright pathetic.
Ogling him, he pats him whenever we drop in, well, strokes rather than
pats, touching him, seducing him, Polič tries to seduce my husband every
time we call on them, asking what about a lovely barriqued Zweigelt, a
week ago and it was still lying down at Langenlois, or saying my dears,
we haven't had a sip of good Traminer for ages, this one's straight from
Alsace, but never old man, you want to grab a beer, still, Erik does not even
notice his efforts. It sort of amuses me, Polič throwing himself all over him
and Erik Paternoster remaining icy cool, cool but pleasant, polite, warm
even, kind, kindly condescending to this troubadour serenade, listening
but never dropping an embroidered handkerchief from his window. Polič
is also the one to bring sliced tomatoes and mozzarella to the table, topped
by a few island capers and a rounded thin trickle of cold-pressed olive oil
from Brda, and once the plate is set on the table, to sprinkle it with a pinch
of fleur de sel from the Sečovlje saltpans, now this is a moment I positively
love: Polič's tanned hands, his long tapering fingers reaching into the bowl,
scooping up little crystals full of sea and sun, dropping them over the red
slices of the oxheart tomato and the buffalo mozzarella, it is because of
these fingers that I call him Polič instead of the detested name written in
his papers, because of these fingers. But I don't know why we keep coming
over, I don't know what pull that place has on Erik, all I know is why I go
along with these visits: beside his painter's hands and long fingers, Polič
has a drawing by Zoran Didek in his flat, a simple drawing made of a few
strokes, which hold all the wide freedom of this world, the ease, confidence
and courage I've never had and never will have, a courage sharp enough to
shin e from the wall straight into my imaginary scene of Irena's babbling
and my struggle to get free of the noose, it helps me, helps me loosen the
strings, but when I get up and switch Irena OFF, I see how puny I am next
to the clarity of Didek's strokes, so tiny and funny, because there is no
courage in shutting up a person, not a bit of it.
We go visiting again, this time with a bottle of golden Samos raisin wine,
Palaio Nectar, it's a year since we brought it from Greece for a special occasion,
I secretly knew that what he had in mind was my thirtieth birthday,
but Erik brought it out of the cellar today, three months early, and gave me
a wink, what about opening this one today, he said and the ground swayed
under my feet, well why not, let this day be the special occasion rather than
my thirtieth birthday, this day when we are off to see the Poličes for the
first time in five weeks, five weeks since the scandal, the unpleasantness,
five weeks ago we were sitting at their place, carrying into our mouths
marinated prawns with rocket pesto and thinly sliced polenta, when all